


All My Words Come Back To Me

by Englandwouldfall



Series: Home [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bad Communication, Break Up, Brief Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester, Daddy Issues, F/M, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues, broken relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-02-22 02:13:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 109,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13157046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englandwouldfall/pseuds/Englandwouldfall
Summary: Dean needs to clear his head, focus and work out what the hell he's gonna do with his life when Sam goes to college.Castiel needs to find someone else to drunk-dial, among other things.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Speed-posting of part three, harrah. This is actually the part of the story I initially wrote after I decided this was going to be a multi-part series. Please be prepare yourself for more angst but HOPEFULLY some angst-release buried in there too. Much is written so this should be pretty speedy too.
> 
> Title, again, is from Simon and Garfunkel's 'homeward bound'.

Castiel is having a bad day.

It begins with the wrong alarm jolting him awake after a night of terrible sleep, meaning that he has ten minutes before he needs to leave the house in order to avoid being late for his first class. He _is_ late because he prioritised coffee over timekeeping and then realised that he had left behind one of his key textbooks, leading to a comical pivot in the middle of the road to grab the damnable book. He gets there after his seminar has started feeling frazzled and irritated, which is only worsened when Daphne points out that he buttoned his shirt up entirely wrong while fluttering her eyelashes at him. If he needed any further reasons to regret taking Daphne out on a date, it is that her voice is _loud_ and now everyone in his class, and his Professor, is entirely aware that Castiel is incompetent. 

Castiel likes physics, but his like of physics is complicated at the best of times, without factoring in the fact that his Professor seems to truly detest him for reasons unknown. He stops talking as he waits for Castiel to take his seat - the only one available, next to Daphne, which is essentially how _that_ happened in the first place - then makes a comment about how that ‘now the uncommitted among us have deigned to show up, perhaps we can _move on_ ’ before continuing teaching. 

He probably should have had more coffee, because he is struggling to focus and struggling not to squirm away from Daphne leaning closer towards him. He is better at physics than psychology, but he's currently working on a theory that his subconscious prevented him from sleeping last night so that he _would_ miss this class as a survival mechanism. 

“Do you want to borrow my notes?” Daphne asks him, hand on his arm.

“No,” Castiel mutters, squaring his shoulders up and trying to force himself to focus. There’s no doubt that the goodwill of his Professor is unlikely to help him in this module, so he _needs_ to focus and do well if he is going to maintain his excellent GPA. His final year of college is not the time for him to lose focus. 

He zones back in just as his Professor advises that the next paper they will be reading is one written by Castiel’s father. It _has_ happened before, but it has not happened when he already out of sorts and frustrated, and not for a long time.

“Perhaps you could _learn_ from this man, Novak to Novak, Castiel,” His Professor says, eyes settling on him. “I suspect Doctor C S Novak would _show up on time_.” 

It’s inadvisable, but Castiel holds that singling people for the express purpose of humiliation is a poor teaching habit and he is not in the mood to be baited this morning. 

“Actually, he’s my father,” Castiel says, “And most of the things I _learned_ from him took years of therapy to _unlearn_. Although, yes, he was punctual.”

There is a shocked silence for a few seconds.

“Moving on, then,” His Professor says, gaze still focused in on Castiel. Their seminar continues without much else to note. The discussion about their father’s paper is brief, because it’s now sufficiently out of date that there’s little _to_ say about it (he can remember discussing it with his father a year or so before he left; in physics terms, it’s practically archaic), then they move onto another topic. Castiel stays quiet and stews in his irritation, trying his best to project ‘not interested’ vibes in Daphne’s direction. 

He is asked to stay back after class. 

“Castiel,” His Professor says, “I didn’t mean to touch on a sensitive topic.”

“It’s fine,” Castiel mutters, pulling his bag further up his shoulder, “I am just having a bad day.” 

“I see,” His Professor says, “I heard your father is re-entering the academic field.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Castiel says, “We are not in contact.”

“Your latest assignment was good,” His Professor says, “But I think you can do better if you really apply yourself. Your ideas are original. You need to work on your communication.” 

He is highly tempted to say _you need to work on your communication too_ , but he just keeps his mouth shut and nods. He _has_ been applying himself just fine and his assignment was definitely better than good. It doesn’t matter right now, though. His top priority is getting out of this building so he has an opportunity to ruminate before his next class. 

“You can go,” He says, nodding towards the door, “Don’t be late again.” 

Daphne is waiting for him outside the classroom. 

“Hello Castiel,” She says, “Do you want to go and get a coffee before Zachariah’s class? You look like you could use some caffeine.”

“Daphne,” Castiel says, “I thought that I was clear about this.”

“Well,”

“I am not interested,” Castiel says, his voice coming out too harsh and _too_ firm, but he has been clear. He has told her. He only agreed to go out for the dinner that she suggested because he had no reasonable reason to say _no_ , not because he actually wanted to (as Hannah pointed out, his stance that relationships are _not_ good idea for Castiel probably should no longer stand; the debacle with Dean was over two years ago and Castiel is better than that now, and even if he isn’t he cannot ‘punish himself forever’ over his own stupidity and flight or fight instinct. It’s a different issue entirely that he just hasn’t been interested in anyone). “I would like to get coffee _alone_.” 

“Is it because you’re in love with your roommate?”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, even though it's not even adjacent to the truth, because he wants to leave this conversation and he _wants_ to be free from the Daphne-shaped shadow that has persistently been everywhere for these past few weeks. “I am in love with Meg. Now, I need to leave.”

*

Kelly is working her shift at the coffee shop and her mouth screws up in sympathy as he walks in. Apparently, his current mood is written all over his face, which is less than ideal. Meg has told him before that his irritated expression is a ‘little smitey’ where as Hannah described him as ‘terrifying’. Still, if it avoids anyone approaching him for social interaction then, today, he will take it. 

“Bad day?” Kelly suggests, as she puts his usual coffee order through the till. 

“Yes,”

“Heard from Meg?”

“No,”

She gestures that she will bring his coffee over to him (Kelly is, as it turns out, a _saint_ ), leaving him to commandeer his favourite table in the corner, get out his laptop from his bag and open up the latest version of his essay. 

He checks his emails as a first port of call for procrastination, but Jimmy still hasn’t replied from his latest message about Claire’s apparent aptitude for Physics. Then he checks Facebook and then his online banking when it turns out that he is _still_ not in the mood to wade through the four thousand words he wrote about political ethics at the end of last week. 

The bank transfer from Meg reading ‘rent’ is there just as it has been for the past four months and Castiel is suddenly very, very done with the whole situation.

As it has done for the past six weeks, Meg’s phone number goes straight to voicemail. 

“Meg,” Castiel says, as Kelly sets his coffee down in front of him, “Generally paying someone rent indicates that you _actually live there_. Given that no one has seen you for six weeks and given that you _have not been home_ , any obligation to pay rent is probably obsolete.”

Taking his anger at this whole shitty day out on Meg’s voicemail is not going to help. It’s just that he _misses Meg_. He is both extremely concerned and highly annoyed at her in equal measure, which means he oscillates from wanting to hunt her down and demand that she clean up her act to wanting to leave her angry, bitter voicemails advising that he has reached the limit of how much care he can give her at the moment. Alongside all of that, he misses her desperately. She is, by some twist of fate, his best friend and he would really, really like to vent at her about Daphne and his Professor and this abysmal essay. He would like an actual conversation, rather than the cryptic text messages she periodically sends him to advise that she is _fine_ and that he does not need to call the police, or contact any of her family members to track her down. 

Castiel sighs.

“I do not care if you’re _high_ , or if they’ve chucked you out of school, Meg. Call me and we will deal with it.”

Kelly is still hovering round his table.

“Castiel,” She says, giving him one of those _looks_ that he is fed up of receiving from all of them - Hannah and Ezekiel and Mick - who all think that he should stop trying and let Meg be Meg. “Don’t you think that you have tried hard enough?” 

“No,” Castiel says, setting his phone down. Castiel does not give up on people. Not anymore. Not again. He cares until it hurts him and then he _keeps_ caring, because the cost of walking away is too high. Meg is important enough to him that he will _keep_ trying because Meg Masters deserves to have someone who cares about her unconditionally. 

“Okay,” Kelly says, holding her hands up and shaking her head before disappearing back to the coffee counter. 

*

Hester calls him just after his last class of the day. He loves Hester deeply and wholy, but he is not entirely sure that he is in the right headspace for her motherly concern and worry. She has sent him several messages today about needing to speak to him, however, and he has successfully reached the point where Hester is no longer overly concerned about his welfare (at least, no more than she is concerned about Gabriel’s welfare), so he is not about to ignore her phone call now. 

“Hello Castiel,” She says, her voice tilted with some emotion that’s difficult for him to decipher over the phone. For all that his more adept than he used to be, reading emotions is still not his greatest strength. “How are you?”

“No one’s died,” Castiel says, “So things could certainly be worse.”

“Have you still not heard from Meg?”

“No,” Castiel says, pulling his coat around him as he begins the walk home. “I am fine, Hester, I’m just not having a very successful day.”

“Are you at home? I need to speak to you about something.”

“Yes,” Castiel lies, “I just got home.”

“Maybe you should sit down,”

“I am _sat down_ ,” Castiel says, crossing the road and taking a left turn out of campus.

“This is quite important, Castiel.”

“Is Anna - ?”

“Anna is well,” Hester says, “Her exhibition begins next week. Perhaps we should arrange for you to visit, so that she will have family support at the beginning opening. I know that she would appreciate your presence and it might be good for you to see her.”

“Hester,” Castiel says, “What is it that you needed to speak to me about?”

“You’re sat down?”

“I am sat down,” Castiel lies, as he takes another left.

“And you promise me that if you need to speak to someone about this, you will call Hannah or Kelly or Gabriel to discuss it?”

“Hester,” Castiel says, “I understand that you have valid reason for concern, but you _know_ that I am able to manage my emotions at this point.”

“Yes, of course,” Hester says, “I do know that, Castiel, it’s just… your father has been in contact with me.”

Castiel sincerely wishes that he had sat down. 

“Castiel,”

“Why?” Castiel asks, his voice scraping out of his throat. He has stopped walking in the middle of the street and it feels very much like his stomach has just been dropped from a great height. His _father_. His father. 

That, he had not expected. 

“He wanted your contact details and your address,” Hester says, gently, “He would like to speak to you, Castiel. His email said that he would like to apologise and explain his actions. He said that he would like to do so in person.”

“He wants,” Castiel begins, swallows, blinks, “I don’t… I don’t understand. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Hester says, “I will forward you the email if you would like, so you can see exactly what he said.”

“Have you… replied?”

“No,” Hester says, “And I have no intention of doing so unless you would like me to. He is your father, Castiel, which makes it your decision.”

“He is also your brother,” Castiel says, forcing himself back into motion again. He is a ten minutes walk away from his apartment. He can make it there before his legs give out and then he can deal with the fallout from there. He just… he just needs to get home and then he will be able to _think_.

“You don’t need to decide now,” Hester says, her voice soft, “You can think about it.” 

“ I,” Castiel begins, but he does not know what the end of that sentence should be, or what he wants, or even what his gut reaction to this news is. Shock, mostly. Horror. He is _horrified_ because… because this does not fit in with Castiel’s world view. It does not fit in with his plans. “Yes, I will think about it.”

“And you will _speak to someone_ about it,”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, speed walking, grip on his phone tightening, “I will call someone.”

“And you… if you need to speak to Naomi…”

“Then I will speak to her,” Castiel assures her, despite the fact that he finished their appointments over six months ago and he has absolutely no intention of continuing them. He _would_ , if it were necessary but he -- he can handle things. He is stronger than he was. “Hester, I need to go.”

“Of course,” Hester says, “I love you, Castiel.”

“I love you too,” Castiel returns, half automatic, because not returning the words will make Hester worried and he can tell that she is _already_ worried. 

Castiel gets through the door of his apartment eight minutes later, his gaze automatically checking for any sign that Meg has been in the property since he left this morning. Instead, there is just his half-abandoned coffee in the kitchen and the stack of his notes that he knocked over on his way out of the door.

His father wishes to speak to him. His _father_ who has been a ghost-like presence in the back of Castiel’s head for three years. His _father_ ; the man from who Castiel inherited the worst parts of himself, learned all his inadvisable coping mechanisms that took him a great length of time to unlearn, who has ruined him more than any individual Castiel has come in to contact with. 

And then there is the fact that Castiel still loves him in virtue of the fact that he _is his father_. 

He makes himself another coffee and sifts through his notes for his political ethics essay, rearranging them back into the order they were in previously as he tries to work out how he feels. He does not feel _good_ , but the rest is difficult to decipher. His shock is still blocking out a great deal of the rest of it. He needs to… he needs to _acknowledge_ how he is feeling and then he needs to commit to feelings those feelings, and then he needs to discuss them with someone who he cares about and who cares about him rather than letting it bubble up in his chest and explode into something ugly and hurtful. Castiel needs to do that so he can give Hester a real answer when she calls him, as she is sure to do daily until he has processed this, about how he is dealing with this news.

It is just difficult, when the numb shock and the horror is the only thing he can focus in on.

After he has pulled up his essay and stared at the words on the screen without seeing any of them, he shuts his laptop with a click and settles on staring at the wall instead. His _father_ wishes to apologise to him. He wishes to explain. He wishes to see Castiel _in person_. 

Around eight PM, he calls Meg again. It goes to voicemail _of course_ and hearing her familiar ‘leave a message, or don’t. Chances are I don’t give a crap’ message has something intense and sharp rise up in his esophagus. He leaves her another message - “Meg, I need to speak to you. Please call me back.” - with his voice shaking and very much _not a level surface_ which he hopes will be enough to knock Meg out of the pity party she has thrown herself. 

Castiel is aware that it won’t. Meg has disappeared - left him - just as a variety of people have done in his existence, such as his father. Such as his _father_ , who --

He is not going to repeat historic mistakes. He is not going to run away from his problems rather than deal with them and he is not going to tell everyone that he feels ‘flat’ until his emotions have eroded all the logical pathways in his brains, because he is not going to prove his father right that he is over-emotional or bad at decisions, and he is not going to prove right the part of himself that worries, sometimes, whether Castiel is exactly the same as his father.

Castiel is _going to feel_ and have a ‘normal’ reaction to this news, he just isn’t entirely sure what that involves. 

After finishing his coffee and wiping his kitchen surfaces down he thinks _what would Meg do_ (a terrible parameter to any decision making, but she is the only one of his friends that he can think into an emotional crisis; the others are all infuriatingly level-headed).

Then he grabs his wallet, his keys and his cell phone and goes to a bar. 

*

Castiel has never understood the concept of ‘drinking away your problems’ because drinking has reliably always made him feel _worse_ about everything. He doesn’t remember how hateful he finds being intoxicated until after he’s drank significantly more than he’s capable of drinking, by which point he has already committed to this terrible course of action. It is too late for him to un-do his alcohol consumption and his problems feel much more pressing now that he is alone, much poorer than he was before he started this endeavour, and his head is pounding with too many thoughts that blur into one another. 

He does not like how illogical he becomes after drinking and how his response to how much he dislikes being drunk is to order _more_ alcohol in an attempt to make him care about it less. 

Generally, Castiel is bad at _not_ caring. 

After his third and forth shots, he fumbles with his phone again and calls Meg for the third time that day. He _knows_ that is is futile, but he knows too that Meg would know exactly what to say to make him feel better about this situation. Meg understands terrible father figures and absent parents. She knows what it is to be broken and to fix yourself, only to realise that there are still cracks for your history to seep through. He wants to speak to his best friend and it is utterly deplorable that she is gone, missing, too busy indulging her own issues to be there for him. 

Sometimes, Castiel does have terrible taste in people.

“Meg,” Castiel says, as he signals for the bartender for another of whatever drink he has been nursing for the past hour. It is _late_ , but it seems unlikely at this point that Castiel is going to make his morning classes anyway. “My father wants to speak to me. He would like to -- he would like to _apologise_ to me. He wants to _explain_. You are supposed to be my friend. You are supposed to be here in my hour of need and you are not, and now I am drunk. You would be proud.” 

If he were being sensible, he would stop drinking and go home, but he does not feel like being sensible. Castiel is always sensible. He tries. He tries to be loyal and _good_ and he does well in college and he tries very hard not to slip back into the person he is when he lets everything overwhelm him. Right now, he wishes to _dwell_ \- wants to be overwhelmed and consumed - and he wishes to dwell on the fact that his father - his bastard of a father - has deigned to contact him to ‘apologise’ for his actions.

He switches to beer, which is a compromise of sorts. 

The irritating fact of the matter is that he has spent time - too much time - trying to understand without his father’s input. He has collected information from Jimmy and Amelia, from Hester, from his other Aunts and Uncles. He has poured over the emails that his mother wrote to Hester before she died. He thought that he had come to terms with all of it. He had a vague notion that he had forgiven him for what he did, because when he looked at the whole picture of his father’s life his actions made sense. Castiel had _accepted_ that he would never know whether his father’s manipulations were purposeful, or a side-effect of his own issues and flaws. He had accepted that there were similarities between them both and he had accepted that he would never, ever get to face his father and say _do you know what you did to me?_

And now, and now, he doesn’t know what he wants. He hates not understanding exactly how he feels. He _detests_ the fact that his father has any power over him at all, that his father dropping a simple email has the power to shake his existence again. He hates, hates, hates the fact that Castiel _still_ cannot deal with this, and that he is quite blatantly not dealing with it in the form of alcohol consumption. 

He makes the decision to cut himself off when he registers that he did not bring anyone with him to make that decision for him, which means that he lied to Hester, which is distinctly not good. He should always listen to Hester, even if she coddles him - all three of them - because she is fundamentally good and always seems to know best. He gets a taxi home because that is what Hester would want him to do, but he’s too keyed up and too _drunk_ to sleep.

He sits up on the sofa instead and wills himself into being _more_ sober. He drinks two coffees and a litre of water, but it doesn’t seem to make a difference to the way the room and the world is spinning, circling. Right now, he has a dizzying lack of self control. 

Calling _Dean_ suddenly seems like the best idea he’s ever had just after six AM, because Dean would understand. _Dean_ received a call from his estranged father on his eighteenth birthday and he got in a car and drove, so he will understand that fact that Castiel has imbibed more alcohol than he’s even consumed in his life in response to a simple email. _Dean_ , more than anyone Castiel has had in his life, will understand how it feels. He must be still intoxicated, despite the fact that his last drink was a very long time ago, because it seems almost irrelevant that he has not spoken to Dean for two years. It _does not seem to matter_ that Gabriel delivered, somber and serious, that Dean had said that ‘he was out’ after Castiel ruined their relationship again because the second he got back to the Miltons he realised the whole concept of them being friends was laughable (he called Meg, confused and upset in Gabriel’s bedroom because it felt like everything he had built was slipping away; that he was getting caught up in the avalanche of _Dean_ and it seemed utterly implausible that he could make it through weeks without Dean doing something so _Dean_ that Castiel would kiss him, lose his resolve and shipwreck his heart again. Meg had listened and said _you need to get out of there, Clarence_ and it had seemed so logical and easy. In the years since he has learnt the Meg’s advice is not always very good). Right now, it _does not matter_ that their relationship was years ago and doomed to fail and that Castiel probably should not care about him anymore, because _Dean_ \- fundamentally good, loyal and enigmatic _Dean_ \- will understand how he feels. 

Castiel almost hangs up when Dean Winchester actually answers the phone. Dean sounds as devastatingly magnetic as ever and Castiel _is_ drunk, very drunk, and he is stumbling through a very confusing and terrible conversation where it must be exceptionally obvious that he is drunk and emotional and _not_ the collected and put-together individual that Castiel probably wanted Dean to think he was by now. Dean, _Dean_ , sounds concerned - which is understandable, very understandable - and he is _actually on the other end of the phone_ and he asks for Castiel’s address and Castiel gives it to him because his mind is swimming and he is suddenly very, very tired.

He leaves his phone on the sofa because he cannot be trusted with it’s use currently and stumbles to bed. He stares at the ceiling for a long while as its spins around him and tries to rationalise the conversation that he just had with his ex-boyfriend. 

He wakes nine hours later with a hangover so severe it feels like a physical manifestation of an existential crisis and does not remember that he _called Dean Winchester_ until Dean calls him the following morning - when Castiel is _still_ hungover - and tells him that Castiel needs to wash his car and that he’s currently stood outside his apartment building. 

Castiel suspects that is not what Hester meant when she told him to ‘call someone’.


	2. Chapter 2

Lisa is hot as hell, _bendy_ and responsible for some of the best sex he’s ever had since he ran into her in a bar in who-the-hell-knows, Indiana, three days ago. She is also _not_ a morning person and not remotely impressed when Dean’s phone starts blaring out Metallica at six AM.

He’s had his cell phone on loud ever since Sam near enough banished him on this road trip for him to find his calling, or whatever the hell else Sam was trying to achieve, just in case his little brother calls and asks him to come home. It’s _not_ Sam, though, but _Cas_ which is… is exactly not what he’s expecting when he’s sleep deprived, a good five hundred miles away from Kansas and has more or less rescheduled his six states in seven days road trip in the name of a hot chick. 

_Cas_.

“Dean,” Lisa complains, burying her face in her pillow, “Make it _stop_.”

And for some fucking reason, Dean complies with her wishes by hitting answer.

“Hey,” Dean says, sitting up, voice hoarse with the sleep he’s not having. For a few long seconds, he gets _nothing_ on the other end except silence and the barest hint of someone breathing. “Is this some kind of butt dial?”

“Why would my butt need to use the phone?” Cas - fucking _Castiel_ asks and Dean… Dean is way too goddamn tied to be getting calls from ancient, complicated history when he’s in bed with someone else. 

“Who is it?” Lisa asks, “Is it your brother?” 

“No it’s,” Dean begins, phone pressed into his neck, because how the hell is he supposed to explain _Cas_ to anyone, particularly when Dean hasn’t heard a damn thing from the guy in forever. “Just my ex from high school but I should… take this. You want coffee?”

Lisa makes a noise of assent and Dean sits up and grabs his jeans from the floor, bringing his phone back up to his ear.

“What’s up, Cas?” He asks and he exits Lisa’s bedroom to head for the kitchen, where there is both coffee and privacy. 

“So I am ‘just your ex from high school’? That is… _good news._ ” Cas says, voice laden with something that it’s too early to deal with. It’s bitter and barbed and about what he should have expected, given that they’ve always been shitty at endings and they didn’t leave things in a good place (entirely Cas’ fault for the record; which Dean sure as hell has not forgotten). 

“Aren’t you?” Dean asks, shutting Lisa’s kitchen door shut behind him and heading to her coffee machine, which is one of his other favourite things about the last few days he’s spent shacked up with Lisa. The freaking bendy sex, the shower pressure and her kick ass coffee machine. “It’s been _two years_.”

“I am aware of how the passage of time works, yes.”

Dean stalls half way through making himself the girliest goddamn cappuccino he can think of because… 

“Are you _drunk_?”

“Yes,” Cas says, down the other end of the phone, “Exceedingly so.”

Dean’s not entirely sure what he’s supposed to do with _that_. 

“It’s - dude, its _six AM_. What the fuck happened?”

“I went to a bar,” Castiel says, pauses, “And then I drank it.”

It’d be funny if it wasn’t so goddamn concerning, because Cas’ comic timing is dead on. Dean’s never heard him off his face before, though. He can remember him getting a little tipsy after being fed copious amounts of alcohol at one of Balthazar’s party, but never drunk. Dean hates to think how much alcohol it would take to even get Cas that drunk because, damn, teenaged Cas had a liver of steel. 

“Are you… are you _with someone_?”

“Not the conversation we’re having right now,” Dean cuts back, as he gets out a second mug for Lisa and debates locating some kind of breakfast. He’s thinking breakfast in bed might be a little too domestic for what’s essentially just a fling while he’s passing through, but he’s also hungry. Hungry and a little restless. The leaving itch settled under his skin at some point last night because there’s no damn point complicating something as pure as good sex by dragging it out too long; and there’s no point muddying the waters with shit like breakfast in bed.

“You told someone that I was your ‘high school ex’ which means that - “

“ - _look_ , genius, what do you want? It’s _early_ and I’ve got no idea why the hell you picked me out of your phone book to bitch at, but -”

“ - my father wants to _apologise_ to me, Dean. He wants to explain why he lied to me about the nature of my existence.” 

Dean feels the fight drain out of him. There’s no way in hell he can be mad at him for _that_. Not when Dean got in his car and drove for half the night after his Dad got in contact last, and not when he nearly crashed the impala on purpose right after John Winchester died. He could write the book on daddy issues. He's a frigging expert. He gets why Cas would call him for a goddamn consult about it, it's just… There's not a whole lot he do can for the guy from Indiana, or Kansas where Cas probably thinks he is, or _at all_ because at this point in time they’re not a whole lot of anything to each other.

Cas _is_ has damn high school ex. That’s it.

“Cas,” Dean sighs, “I - I get it. God knows I get _that_ , but you… you gotta have someone else you can call about that. Someone who can come over there and hold your hair while you chuck up your guts and make sure you’re not about to choke on your vomit, not _me_.”

“I called them,” Castiel says, slurs, and his voice is all _wrong_. Dean’s not sure how he didn’t notice it the second he picked up the call (probably the surprise of Cas calling in the first place), but he’s never heard Cas sound like that before. “I called, _Dean_ , but she is probably having a cocaine relapse and she has disappeared and she paid me her rent yesterday, but she will not be available to hold any of my hair.”

“You,” Dean starts, “You live with a cocaine addict?”

“ _No_ ,” Castiel says, “I don’t know where she is.” 

“I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The point is, I don’t know what to _do_ , about my father. He was bad, bad at being my father, but he - I am tired.” 

“You been to bed yet, sunshine?” 

“I am too intoxicated for unconsciousness,”

“Probably,” Dean concedes.

“I told Hester I would call someone. I should have called someone before I drank everything.” Castiel continues, which is dead on. The thought of Cas drinking alone to deal with this rather than calling the friends Dean knows he has - Charlie told him Cas has lots of friends, has met most of them even - isn't filling him with a lot of joy. It's reminding him how deeply his concern for Cas still runs; tracks of giving a damn trodden into his make up a long time ago and not quite worn away by time. 

Cas calling him is not good news for Cas. 

“Hindsight is a bitch like that,” Dean says, taking a sip of his coffee and sitting at Lisa’ table, already mapping out a _plan_. To a certain extent, Cas calling him at all is enough to make it too darm hard to put his feelings back into their box and slam the lid shut. It’s _open_ now. He can’t unbang that gong, it’s just a matter of whether he’s gonna do something about any of it, or not.

“Yes,” Castiel says, “In hindsight, I should not have left that summer.”

“Cas,” Dean says, his chest constricting. _Damnit, Cas_. “Come on. You’re drunk off your face, man. You need to eat something, not talk to me about this.”

“I am _sorry_ ,” Cas says, “I don’t know why I always break things. I think it’s… _my father_ , Dean, he was a bad role model. He said I was bad at people, but -”

“You're not bad at people. You’re bad at _alcohol_ , apparently.”

“I am aware that you ‘are done’ with me, but I… I wanted to talk to someone who understood. You said that we were friends, once.”

“And I meant that, Cas,” Dean says, using his spare hand to rub his neck, thinking. “You were the one who -”

“I know,” Cas says, sounding way too miserable for Dean to deal with. It’s _too much_ and then it all slots into place into his head, because he didn’t exactly have a plan of where he was driving. He had a vague notion of New England (that at least was the plan before his duo trip began a solo venture), which means that he’s pretty much headed in the right direction.

He’s been at Lisa’s too long. He was always going to move on this morning. He was only supposed to be passing through Indiana, anyway, not stalling (and part of it was not winding up _further away_ from Sam, but Lisa was something else and a helluva distraction.)

It’s a dumb thing to do. 

It never felt like things were finished with Castiel, anyway.

He’s on the road with no fixed destination and the most amount of freedom he’s had, ever, and he’s not gonna be able to live with himself if he doesn’t go now that he knows that Cas is a hot mess who wants to _talk to him_ about his father. 

“What’s your address?”

“What?” Castiel asks.

“Cough up the goods, Cas, I’m driving out to you.”

“You live in _Kansas_.”

“You’re a smart cookie when you’re wasted,” Dean comments, “I’m in the area. Near enough, anyway. I can be with you in…. Uh, twenty four hours if you can survive that long.”

“I am,” Castiel says, deadly serious, “A _survivor_.”

“Awesome,” Dean returns, “Gloria Gaynor would be proud. Don’t tell anyone I said that. My street cred won’t take it.”

“I don’t understand that reference,” Castiel says, without a trace of embarrassment, “You are coming _to Yale_?”

“Only if you want me to,” Dean says, lungs constricting as he waits his response, because a drunk-dial isn’t exactly an invitation. Not to actually turn up in person, at least, especially given… everything. . 

“Yes,” Castiel says, after a few long moments of silence. “Bring a pizza. I’m hungry.

” “You are gonna feel like warmed up shit in about three hours,” Dean says, “I’m kind of sad I’m gonna miss the worst of it. Baby in a trench coat, I’m telling you.” 

“I need to sleep now, Dean, it’s bedtime.”

“Wait,” Dean says, “I need your address. Hold on while I grab a pen.”

Castiel hangs up immediately after he’s given it to him, but Dean's already got everything he needs for stage two of mission _find himself_ , which apparently starts with finding Cas’ dumb ass first.

Lisa emerges from her bedroom fifteen minutes later as Dean's planning out his route to New Haven. It's still a damn long way, but if he takes a straight route and avoids passing through any cities, he reckons he can do it easy before Cas does something else stupid. A day if he gets back behind the wheel soon and drives all day with his foot to the floor. 

Lisa’s coffee is forgotten next to the coffee machine. 

“Damnit,” Dean mutters, “I'll make you another.”

“Doesn’t matter. You're leaving, aren't you?

“Yeah,” Dean settles on, because there's no point sugar coating it. Lisa knew the deal when she invited him to stay a couple of nights with some veiled innuendo about yoga. It was a given he was gonna take off and keep driving. She was probably getting fed up of seeing him clogging up her place anyway. She probably _wants_ him to go after three nights of marathon sex and fooling around. She’s got a life. Work. Friends. 

“Knew there had to be a reason you were single,” Lisa says, tipping out her coffee and starting over. “Still hung up on your high school ex - got it.”

It’s not the most inaccurate thing Dean’s heard to describe himself and, whatever, he’s never going to Lisa again and she’s cool enough not to judge him for it. Everyone’s got their baggage and she’s stumbled across the least engrained of his, so he’s not inclined to give a crap about it.

“Cas needs help, so I’m driving out there.”

“And _Cas_ is where?”

“Yale,”

“Huh. Long way.,” Lisa says, “Hope she needs a lot of help.”

Dean honestly cannot be bothered to correct her at this stage in the game, when he’s got one foot out the door already and is already trying to remember if he went to any decent roadside places nearby when he was a kid, so that he can stop somewhere decent for breakfast in a couple of hours times. 

“It sounded like it,” Dean says, setting down his phone to look at her. Lisa is fucking hot, walking around her apartment in her underwear and one of those silk dressing gown things that she hasn’t bothered doing up, with her bendy-as-hell legs and her _ass_. In another life, maybe he would have stayed a couple more days, if she wanted him to. Taken her out for dinner.

“I’m going back to bed,” Lisa says, “Keys in the bread bin. Post it through the letterbox when you’ve locked up.”

“Roger that,” Dean says, “Can I use your shower before I leave?”

“Knock yourself out,” Lisa says, settling behind him with her hands on his shoulders for a brief moment, “Have a nice life, Dean Winchester.”

“Dean _best you ever had_ Winchester,” Dean corrects, turning round to grin at her. She smiles and stretches, picking up her coffee again with a smirk.

“You’re full of it.”

“For good freaking reason. Credit where credit’s due, Lise.”

“I’ll give you memorable,” Lisa says, “And if you pass through here on your way back from New Haven, I wouldn’t ignore your call.”

“Noted,” Dean smirks, draining his coffee.

He’s on the road by six forty five after stopping for a takeout coffee and a doughnut and he decides he’ll call Sam with his new plan when he’s sufficiently far enough into it that he can’t try and talk him out of it. 

*

He stops for a proper second breakfast four hours later at a joint that sells grease with everything and extra bacon as standard. The coffee is bad, period, but he orders a double shot and calls Sam from his booth in the corner.

“Hey Dean,” Sam answers, “I'm just about to leave for work.”

“Right,” Dean says through his bacon, because he knew that, but Sam hates that he's memorized his schedule and timed his whole pit stop based on the best time to call him. “I'm extending my trip for a few days,” Dean continues, tracing the rim of his shitty coffee with his thumb. Sam is probably going to be thrilled by the news, because Sammy pushed him out the door with his duffle bag and told him to take longer. _I'm going to college next summer, Dean. You need to get used to us not living in each other's pocket_. “You gonna be okay on your own, Sammy? I can send you more cash if you're nearly out of food.”

“Dean, you left me a freezer full of food. You must have been cooking for a week.”

“Yeah, well. Bobby would be pissed if I let you starve.”

“Dean,”

“Okay, I get it. You'll be fine. You need to get to work - whatever. Just letting you know my schedule.”

“So the girls nice, huh?” Sam says, sounding all smug and self satisfied. It’s damn good to hear him happy, even if it took him being banished to get him there. 

“Who said there was a girl?” 

“Dean, you haven't sent me a progress report in two days and when you called me last there was a woman talking in the background. Not an idiot, remember?”

“Okay, you caught me, there was a girl. Yoga teacher, bendy, shower pressure from the gods. Back on the road now, headed to Connecticut.”

“Connecticut.” Sam deadpans.

Dean finishes chewing his bacon before he continues. 

“New Haven, specifically.”

“You mean _Cas_.”

“He called, Sam.”

“I don't doubt it.” Sam says, all self-righteous and probably _right_ , too, because Sam gets protective over Dean too, and he got the whole shitty tale about their last relationship car-crash in the end. It wasn’t till a good five months after the funeral, maybe, but Dean eventually did tell all of it and Sam was probably as pissed off as Dean’s ever seen him. It was nice at the time to have someone on _his_ side. Charlie took her position as Switzerland a little after that, but his friendship with Gabriel was more or less wiped out by the whole thing. It was just _crap_ and Dean hasn’t forgotten that it’s just…

It’s Castiel. 

“Not like that, he was drunk -”

“You're driving out there because he drunk dialed you?” 

“He, his dad showed up. Wants to apologise or some crap. I owe him, Sam. When Dad called on that birthday he got in his car and drove out to me.”

“Over three years ago!” 

“He skipped school. He just left and he -”

“- Look, Dean, I need to get to work,” Sam cuts across him, with a tone like this whole damn conversation is _not_ over. Dean will take it if it gives him another excuse to ring, because he’s not all that sure whether Sam wants him to right now. He spent the first night of this crappy road trip drinking cheap whiskey neat in his motel room and watching reruns of Dr Sexy. Lisa improved things, obviously, but up until _Cas_ called him the only thing Dean wanted to do was do a u-turn in the middle of the road and floor it home.

“When's your lunch break?” Dean asks, even though it’s damn sad that he’s planning his day around arguing with Sam.

“Call me when you've pitched up for the night and we'll talk about it then.”

“Fine,” Dean grouches, “But we're talking about how you're quitting your damn job too. You got better things to do with your Saturdays than wait tables -”

“- School started back up three weeks ago, Dean, I'm not exactly snowed under.”

“Fine,” Dean bites out, “Do what you want. Call you later.”

He gets back on the road ten minutes later after he's picked up the check, taken a leak and got a red eye to go. Sam’s current insistence that he's a freaking adult settles under skin, stewing, until he feels shitty as hell about all of it. About the fact that Sam's making it damn clear that he doesn't need him; the unstated reality that Dean isn't invited wherever he goes to college; about Cas calling him and Dean being dumb enough to go; about the fact that his thing with Lisa was transient and fleeting and fun, like all of his relationships have been because he just had different priorities and so, so little to give. 

He stuffs one of his old road trip tapes into the deck another fifty miles down the road, cranks the music up and sings Led Zeppelin all the way down route 70 in an attempt to convince himself that he’s actually having a good time. 

*

Dean picks up the argument with Sam after he's checked into a motel a couple of hours away from Cas. He's made decent time, mostly because he ate lunch on the road and felt like he needed to keep driving not to lose momentum. He'd take a nap and keep driving, but there's no point showing up in the middle of the night and he promised Sonny he wouldn't be an idiot (the _again_ was implicit) before he left.

He was gonna text Cas and make sure he's alive, but he decided against it just in case sober-Cas doesn't want Dean anywhere freaking near him. The only thing more pathetic than driving eight hundred miles to see your ex is driving six hundred then being told you're not welcome. 

Anyway, now the idea's in his head, he wants to see him. Wants to know how the hell Cas is doing after all this time. He's pretty damn sure that it's gonna good for him, too.

Sam sees it differently, obviously. 

“You keep doing this, Dean. It's not healthy.”

“When have I done a damn thing that's healthy ?” Dean throws back, fork hovering over the Chinese food he picked up half an hour back. It's cold, but he's eaten worse and it's decent washed down with a couple of beers he bought before he got to Lisa’s and stored in the trunk. “Sam. I'm just driving out there to see if he's okay, help him sort it out in his head, then I'm turning around and coming home.

“Sure,” Sam says, “Except, you never _just_ anything with Cas, ever.”

“Well this time, I am," Dean counters, "It's _done_ Sam."

"So you're not going to sleep with him?"

"If I wanted to get laid, I'm pretty sure I could swing that in any state, save myself the drive. I'm freaking adorable, Sammy, getting a leg over aint a challenge. Plus, after three days… with Lisa, I need a damn rest."

"You're not going to gross me out of talking about this, Dean."

"Yoga, Sam. It's a revelation. I didn't know bodies even bent that way."

"Dean."

"I ached in places I didn't know existed." 

" _Promise me_ you're not gonna sleep with him?"

Dean takes a swig of his beer and kicks his feet onto his motel bed, shoes on, because it's not like there's anyone here to complain about it. 

"This is juvenile, Sammy. I got this."

"He really hurt you last time, Dean, and I -" 

" - Cas being an asshole is not news to me."

"Then you promise."

"Fine," Dean says, because what the hell. He’s got no idea how his welcome is gonna be in New Haven, at all, but Cas is emotionally messed up and Dean’s spent a lot of the last two year thinking that if he saw him again he’d punch him in the face; _sex_ feels pretty off the table. If he _does_ wind up in bed with the guy, it’s not like he actually has to tell Sam about it, anyway. Promising is easy because promises are cheap. "I promise I will not _sleep_ with Castiel. You happy?"

"Why are you doing this, Dean, really?" Sam asks, launching into his next tirade before Dean can give him an answer. Dean takes another swig of his beer and rolls his eyes at the ceiling. "Because I find it difficult to believe that you haven't heard from the guy for years and you suddenly decide -"

"- it's a direction to point a steering wheel in Sam."

"So you're saying you're _not_ still in love with him?"

"I will hang up on your ass so damn hard, bitch."

"Because _you know_ that starting whatever your thing up with Cas again is -"

"- damnit, Sam, I'm just _worried_ about him, okay? Say whatever the hell you want, but when you're drunk off your ass and wanting to talk to someone, it aint good news that he chooses to call someone he's ditched, repeatedly, years ago. Cas is supposed to be settled with some nice Yale nerd and he's not _supposed_ to be so upset about shit that he's drunk at 6am. No way."

"Dean," Sam says, "I know that you... like to be needed, Dean, but -"

That's it. That's Sam pushing him too far. Way, way too far.

“Screw you, Sam,” Dean snaps, sitting up so fast he nearly knocks his beer over his lap, pacing the length of the room for something to do with the anger that’s rising up in his gut. 

_Sam_ has got to be the second most infuriating person in existence, right after Castiel, and Dean’s royally fed up of the way Sam’s been pushing his buttons for weeks.

“What?”

“Don't play innocent. I get the subtext, and it's bull. Maybe you've got a court document saying that you can do whatever the hell you want , but that sure as hell don't mean that you don't _need me_ and it doesn't mean you don't have to listen to a damn word I say,” Dean spits out, violently turning the TV _off_ and kicking off his shoes.

“Actually, it does mean that you don't get to tell me what to do. It means I can make decisions about my life _myself_.”

“ - Right, because Sam Winchester is so goddamn independent, he doesn't need anyone. He can handle all of it on his own armed with his emancipation sticker and his internship - “ 

“Dean, you wanted me to stay with you. You wanted me out of Sonny's, you didn't -”

“ - I was working on it, Sam,” Dean interrupts.

“So it'd be _better_ for you not to be allowed to have a life? To check in with Ellen every week. To not be able to have one night stands or to take a trip -”

“ - I didn't want to take this goddamn trip without you, anyway,” Dean blurts out, which is a bad idea, because they’ve technically already had this argument three times and Dean lost. He wouldn’t be here at all if he hadn’t lost and if he wasn’t slowly losing Sam, again, this time of Sam’s own choice.

“I told you I could look after myself, Dean, and -”

“Yeah, I get it,” Dean snaps, voice hot with anger. “You're fucking James Dean. One man island. You know how much of a jerk you've been lately, Sam? Do you even see what a frigging brat you've been? But why the hell would Sam goddamn Winchester care, right, because he's fucking fine all by himself.”

He’s too pissed off to regret the fact that his words are thorned and bitter, either, because they’re _justified_ and Dean has a right to be angry. He has a _right_ to be unhappy about all of this, even if there’s probably a dozen more productive things he can do with all of it than yell at a seventeen year old with no idea that his actions _hurt_ from a thousand miles away. 

“Dean,” Sam says, some of his puppy eyes expression slipping into his voice. “I didn't mean it like that.”

“I know,” Dean exhales, “I just don't think you get that you're a kid, Sammy, whatever some Lawrence court says. You don't have to prove the whole world that you're capable. I _know_ and whatever ivy league super nerd school you settle on is gonna know too. Whatever. It doesn't... it doesn't matter, but if you start trying to pay me rent I'm gonna kick your ass.”

“Okay,” Sam says, “Dean, I've got -”

“ - Work in the morning, I know,” Dean supplies, swallows, his voice cracking, “I _hate_ you working this much, Sam.”

“You worked more than me in your senior year of high school,” Sam returns, but he’s lost the argumentative edge. Now he’s pulling the too-good-for-this-world sincere crap that Dean tends not to admit works on him out loud.

“Sam, I passed by my fingertips and it nearly freaking killed me. I was losing my mind for a whole year. You're not me, Sam. I'm not even saying you couldn't do it. You're way freaking smarter than I ever was, but you don't _have to_.” 

“You shouldn’t’ve had to either,” Sam says, voice smaller. Younger.

It’s not like Sam’s wrong, it’s just that Dean had to let go of most of the anger he was storing about all of that crap a long time ago, because it wasn’t going to change anything. It was just going to swallow him up. 

“Well, that's done,” Dean says, sitting back down on the motel bed and shutting his eyes, “Just, goddamnit Sam, let me help you. Even if you won't let me put you through college, I can at least put you through high school.”

“Okay, Dean,” Sam says, thank fuck, “I still think New Haven is a terrible idea.”

“That is your right as my brother, best friend and constant pain in my ass. Get some sleep.”

“Roger that. And, Dean, check out Yale for me.”

“Is that on the list?” Dean asks, taking another swallow of his beer as it suddenly occurs to him that he’s tired. From the drive, from the constant power-struggle of living with a goddamn teenager, from the knowledge that everything is going to change all over again, soon. He’s tired of thinking about Sam driving off to college and Dean realising when the dust settles that the only thing he’s got in his life is a gruff father-figure to listen to him bitch, and his car.

“Yep,” Sam says, “As of yesterday, it's back on the list.”

Sam’s life is full of possibility and options and a future. Dean’s is a past and a present and a gaping open space that he’s got nothing to fill with. An open road with less than half a tank of gas and no obvious direction. He’s got _Sam_ and he honestly, honestly thought that was enough to make him happy.

Dean grunts a noise of assent to Sam before he hangs up, flicks his phone resolutely onto silent and cracks open his third beer. He considers going out and trying to pick someone up, but it feels too weird this close to Cas. Instead, he turns the TV back onto Doctor Sexy and watches it until he starts to drift off, fully dressed, in his single motel room.

*

He’s just about to leave the surprisingly okay motel when a stream of messages roll in from Sam, which means he’s up and about to head to work in the crappy car Dean salvaged for him from Bobby’s backyard. The first is an apology of sorts and a little too sentimental for him to read when he’s digesting his breakfast of potato chips and peanuts. It’s all waxed poetics about how Sam does appreciate Dean, really, about how he does need him and that he’s sorry for bruising Dean’s fragile ego with all the bullcrap he’s been pulling for the past month since Sam realised he was about to be a senior high schooler and had to start making the big decisions. At least, that’s what Dean’s getting from reading between the lines because Dean knows Sam to his core, it’s just that doesn’t make him any less annoying when he’s lashing out and forcing Dean out of everything.

The second is a list of things Sam wants to know about Yale. The size and ‘feel’ of the campus, photographs of a couple of buildings, how their different colleges work, whether Dean thinks Sam would ‘fit’ there and if there’s any decent coffee in walking distance of the lecture halls.

The third just says _use a condom_ because his little brother is a total asshat. 

He types out a familiar ‘bitch’’ message to Sam before he leaves, feeling sixteen times more cheerful than he had when he woke up in a funk wondering what the hell he was doing in the state of New York, about to turn up at Cas’ doorstop. 

*

Dean gets there at around ten AM and winds up parked right next to Cas’ shitty old car, which is at least confirmation that he’s actually at the right place and Cas’ drunk ass didn’t forget where he freaking lived. He figures his best option is the direct one and pulls up Cas’ number and hits ‘call’ before he can second guess himself.

Cas answers with a rough and confused sounding “hello” which fits well into Dean’s theory that Cas doesn’t remember him agreeing to Dean driving out here and still feels like warmed up shit. He’s pretty he’d have backtracked if he remembered any of their conversation, or at least sent him a text message to tell him he was alive and felt sufficiently humiliated the next morning. 

“Got to tell you, Cas, you’re breaking my heart here. Not only are you still driving your piece of shit car, but it looks a hell of a lot like you haven’t cleaned the damn thing since you drove it here from Kansas.”

“Dean,” Cas says, deep and as compelling as ever, “Why are you…? I called you.”

“You sure did, Sunshine.”

“I,” Castiel says, dread creeping into his voice, “I _called you_.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, leaning against the hood of the impala and smiling at himself, because he can just imagine the squinty expression of confusion that Cas must be wearing right about now. Here. In the same damn state as Dean. “And I’m downstairs.” 

“ _How_?”

“Like I said, I was in the area. You sounded like you needed some kind of intervention, so…”

“You are… downstairs? At _Yale_.”

“Yep. You gonna get your ass down here and say hello, or what?”

“I… I’m not dressed, Dean, it’s… give me five minutes.”

In the end, he takes more like ten and emerges from his apartment block looking exactly as Dean would have figured he’d have looked after drinking his weight in something alcoholic after learning his father wanted to be best-buddies all of a sudden. He looks like nauseated, confused, overwhelmed, crap.

He’s wearing a new variation of his classic tan trench coat and such a strong surge of affection rises in Dean’s gut that he regrets, just a little, not paying a little more attention to Sam’s warnings. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I neeeed to sleeeppp why am i wrritttiinnggggg


	3. Chapter 3

“You look…” Dean begins, mouth dry, hands in his pockets as the moment settles over them both. It’s been a damn _long_ time since they were last in the same place. A lot has happened since then. A lot has happened to Dean, it just doesn’t feel like when he’s facing Cas down in a parking lot in New Haven, Connecticut, like Dean has a freaking clue what he’s doing with his life.

“Terrible,” Cas supplies, which is not completely inaccurate. He looks good because he’s _Cas_ , but he also looks like the walking talking version of the worst hangover Dean’s ever had. “I…. I would like to state for the record that, generally, I am no more or less attractive than I was when we were last sleeping together. This is a _bad day_.”

“Got it,” Dean smiles, because it’s such a _Cas_ thing to voice. Acknowledging that desire that everyone has about their exes still thinking their hot out loud, to his face. Dean’s not going to press too hard into the fact that he’s _glad_ that Cas still wants him to find him attractive because… _Well_. 

“You’re lucky I’ve showered,” Cas says, “I, you’re _here_.”

“Yep,” Dean says, watching Cas watch him. His memory of Cas’ gaze didn’t touch on the intensity of the live version. He’d diluted it, apparently, because it’s something else having Cas look at him like that after all this time. “You hungry?”

“No,” Cas says, “I’ve felt too nauseous to eat.”

“Wait,” Dean stalls,“You’ve _showered_ and you haven’t eaten? Dude, do you even know how hangovers work?”

Neither of them have made any further movement towards each other. They are both exceptionally still, drinking each other in. 

“I wasn’t aware that it was possible to be this hungover.”

“Oh, you’ve got a lot to learn, tough guy,” Dean says, pocketing his hands, “You gonna throw up?”

“Throwing up would imply there is something within me left to throw up,” Cas says, looking utterly miserable, weak and so _Cas_ that it makes Dean’s head a little fuzzy. 

“That settles it,” Dean says, nodding at his car. “We're getting some breakfast. You and me. All you gotta do is give me directions.”

“Parking is terrible round the campus,” Cas says, “We should walk.”

“Okay then,” Dean says, swallowing. “I'm following your lead.”

Cas nods at that and pulls his coat tighter around him before he heads towards the exit, Dean falling into step with him easy enough. They’re quiet. Not quite awkward, but not comfortable either. Dean has no goddamn idea where they’re supposed to start this conversation, or what part of their relationship he’s supposed to be picking up from. Everything with Cas got complicated a long time ago. It’s the opposite of clear cut. Even after all this time, apparently he’s still pissed off (and he really goddamn thought he’d let go of that by now, but it doesn’t look like he has), and yet he still has to resist the urge to read forward and rest a hand on Cas’ lower back as they walk like he would have done, once upon a time.

“I usually get coffee,” Cas says, after they’ve reached their apparent destination, with Cas opening the door to allow him to step through like anything about this current situation is normal, “But they sell food.”

“Do we sit? Go to the counter, or- ?”

“Coffee you go up, food you sit. Dean,” Cas says, frowning at him, “I really don't think I can eat anything.”

“You gotta eat, Cas, or your two day hangover is gonna roll over to a three day hangover and you'll die of meat deprivation. Trust me. You need hash browns and toast and bacon.”

“The thought alone makes me feel worse.”

“Do you trust me?” Dean asks, which was definitely supposed land as more light hearted than it does. He just means about _breakfast_ , but obviously Cas takes every freaking thing literally, and stares at him intently enough that Dean feels a little like Cas is trying to read his mind. Knowing Cas, he’s probably running an internal audit to come up with a real answer to Dean’s question.

_Do you trust me?_

“What did you mean you were in the area?” Cas asks, eyes narrowed, which is a shitty deflection that winds up with Dean suddenly wanting to know whether _trust_ is part of their whatever that stood the test of time. If Cas ever trusted him in the first freaking place.

And then there’s the part where Dean has to tell him that by ‘in the area’ he meant he drove eight hundred fucking miles in response to a drunk-dial and that’s… not all that easy to explain. He doesn’t really have a suitable answer to explain it to himself, let alone to _Cas_. 

Dean's saved answering by the waitress showing up, her eyebrows up in her hairline as Dean orders them both food when Cas doesn’t start talking. 

“And coffee,” Dean finishes, “ My buddy here needs a freaking vat of coffee.”

“Coffee dehydrates you,” Cas says, mouth pulled into the most goddamn pathetic frown Dean's ever seen, “There is no scientific reason why coffee should help a hangover.”

“Trust me.”

“Castiel?” The waitress asks, turning to look at him as Cas seems to shrink into his seat, “Your usual coffee?”

So she _knows_ Cas. Figures.

“Yes,” Cas manages, “Thank you Kelly.”

“And for Dean?”

“He takes his coffee the same,” Cas says, looking more uneasy by the minute, resolutely not meeting their waitresses’ eyes, “And tap water, please.”

“Did you tell her my name just then?” Dean asks, as she - Kelly - walks back to the counter, turning around to crane her neck at them.

“No,” Cas says, “She's my friend.”

“And she knows who I am?” Dean asks, smirking a little as Cas’ embarrassment increases. That is interesting. Interesting and a little funny.

“This is humiliating,” Cas says, “Yes, she knows who you are. They Facebook hunted you -”

“ - pretty sure the term is Facebook stalked.”

“Does it matter?” Cas asks, irritable.

“So I'm famous, huh. Awesome.”

“You’re amused by this,” Cas says, “Wonderful.” 

“Cas,” Dean says, leaning forward to say _something_ , even though Dean’s not got a clue about what he’s going to say. Something. Something dumb, probably. 

“When I said there was nothing left in my to throw up, I was wrong. I - excuse me.” Cas says, standing up suddenly enough that he nearly knocks his chair over, headed towards the restroom before Dean can say another thing. 

Dean checks his phone and tries to avoid Kelly’s attempt at catching his eyes. No messages from Sam. Nothing from Bobby. There’s not really anyone else who he’d expect messages from. Sonny, maybe, but that’s it. Dean massages his forehead and reminds himself that this whole thing is a terrible idea before pocketing it again. It’s been twenty five minutes since he showed up and he has no freaking idea _why_ he’s here.

Kelly delivers their coffees and hovers way too long, looking at him. Dean offers her a tight smile and she’s apparently not bold enough to actually strike up conversation, which is probably a good thing.

Cas shows back up again a few minutes later, looking paler and shakier. 

“You must have felt freaking terrible yesterday,” Dean says, as Cas sits down and takes a sip of his water, “Wow, man, what did you even drink?”

“I think it's unadvisable to talk about that.”

“Fair enough.”

“Dean, I don't understand how you're here. Where were you?”

“Uh, Indiana,” Dean says, wrapping his hands around his coffee and trying to look like that isn’t a big deal. He kind of needs it not to be a big deal, because this whole thing is already weird enough as it is. Sitting with Cas and engaging in small talk about his hangover rather than acknowledging the fact that they are _not friends_ , not anything to each other anymore..

“That is not ‘in the area’.” Cas says, very still, staring.

“Closer than Kansas,” Dean shrugs, forcefully casual, taking a sip of coffee.

“I - why?”

“You called me,” Dean says, his throat tight. He puts his coffee down and swallows. He… he’s not ignorant that what he’s doing is bloody stupid. He _gets_ that and it’s perfectly reasonable for Cas - super freaking hungover Cas - to stare at him like he’s just lost his mind. 

“You said that you were done.”

“You said that we were friends. We all say crap we don't mean,” Dean says, because apparently he’s a total _asshole_ and his feelings are sitting way too close to the surface with Cas sat right there.

Cas’ forehead creases into a frown. He looks down at his coffee and then back up at Dean.

“You drove a very long way, Dean,” Cas says, his voice intimate and _soft_ and god fucking damnit it, Dean is not cut out for dealing with this. Especially when Cas is right. Dean drove a long way. He drove a really long freaking way.

“I have a free weekend,” Dean shrugs, “Look, Cas, I owe you a Daddy-issue crisis, okay? You did a lot for me and my messed up head when we were teenagers. I'm returning the favour.”

Cas gives him a look like he knows that’s thinly veiled bullshit excuse, but is doing him a favour of not picking at it any favour. Now, at least.

“Why were you in Indiana?”

“Road trip. See, me being here's not a big deal. I was headed this way. You can tell your friend that. But you gotta fill me in the details, here, cause I got about fifty percent of what you said on the phone, then you were talking about some cocaine addict owing you rent and apologising for England.” 

“I remember the conversation now,” Cas says, cocking his head, “You were with someone in Indiana.” 

“What am I, a monk?” Dean asks, “Some girl from a bar. Irrelevant.” 

“It wasn't a criticism,” Cas says, “I'm just… Sorry you made such a long trip.”

“I'm not,” Dean says, “Now come on, Cas, talk to me.”

Kelly turns up with their food before Cas can start talking, which he looks pretty relieved about at least until his gaze lands on his food and eyes it like his eggs are about to try and assassinate him. Dean had forgotten how fucking cute the guy could be and that’s… not helpful in the slightest. Irritating, if anything. 

“Dean.” Cas says, warily.

“Eat,” Dean says, “The worst thing that can happen is that you throw up again which, hey, par for the course at this point. Trust me.” 

Cas picks up his fork like he’s going into battle. He eats the first slice of toast slowly and deliberately, then speers his hash brown with more enthusiasm. Dean shakes his head to snap himself out of it and begins eating himself; Cas’ staring habit is catching and he needs to listen to the voice in the back of his head that sounds a lot like Sam. The surge of affection he’s feeling because Cas is adorably pathetic right now needs to be squashed down and filed away for him to deal with later, because it’s irrelevant. Dean needs it to be irrelevant. 

“This is good,” Cas says, grabbing a slice of bacon. “This hash brown is…”

“Giving you life? Here,” Dean says, nudging his own plate over and pushing his last hash brown in Cas’ direction because if anyone needs fried potato and bread right now, it’s Cas. “Eat. You'll feel better in no time.”

Cas acquists rather than debate it with him, allowing Dean to add it to his plate.

“You never told me a lot about your dad,” Dean says, after they've finished eating and Cas is beginning to make heart eyes at his coffee. If he didn’t feel so bad about Cas being _that_ hungover, he’d be throwing a I-told-you-so so hard.

“I didn't tell you much about anything,” Cas says, taking a long drink of his coffee.

“Point,” Dean says, exhaling and looking down at his own coffee. “I'm here to listen, Cas. I always was.”

“I -” Cas begins, then looks down at his empty plate, “I am very similar to my father.”

“I doubt that. You wouldn't pull the crap he did, Cas.”

“You mean abandon someone that you love?” Cas asks, “That sounds exactly like something I would do.”

Dean’s lung momentarily cease to function, before he remembers he's here to return a favour. To hash out the situation with Cas’ father until Cas knows what he wants to do, and that's it. He's not here for an explanation or a resolution to the tangled mess of their relationship. He’s not here for anything else. Not a damn thing. 

“You wouldn't walk out on a kid,” Dean says, voice low. “Not your own son. I know that. I know you.”

“It seems unlikely that I would have a son in the first instance.”

“Cas, you're twenty one, it's a little early to make those kinds of calls.”

“I would be a disaster, Dean. You would be a good father, but I -”

“You're being pretty hard on yourself,”

“You're right,” Cas says, “This hangover is making me unusually self indulgent and self critical.”

“No, I get it. Nothing like a hangover to churn up some self hatred.”

“I am not normally like this,” Cas says, gaze settling on his coffee, which feels no less intense than his eyes being fixed on Dean for some reason. 

“Cas,” 

“I am _doing well_ , Dean.”

“And then you father called?” Dean suggests.

“Yes,” Cas says, “Well, he emailed Hester.”

“What was he like?”

“Can we discuss this back at my apartment? I already have to explain _this_ to Kelly and last time I discussed this in detail it was with my therapist and I cried. I would rather not have more witnesses than necessary.”

The concept of Cas crying makes his brain stick. 

“Okay,” Dean says, pulling out his wallet.

“I'll get this,” Cas says.

“You don't, it's not necessary -”

“You drove along way to be here, Dean, and you were right. I do feel better now I’ve eaten.” Dean resits the part of himself that used to hate whenever Cas paid for crap because it made them unequal, because that doesn’t matter anymore. Cas’ point is logical. 

“Okay,” Dean shrugs, “Not in the business of turning down free breakfasts.”

“Thank you,” Cas says, standing up and heading to the counter. Dean takes the opportunity to text Sam an update - the Cas is a walking advert for the benefits of sobriety and that Yale has bad parking - as Cas has a hushed conversation with Kelly.

He grabs Cas’ coat when Cas starts heading over to him, holding it out to help him put it on on automatic. Cas tilts his head at him in curiosity.

“Sorry,” Dean mutters, handing it over, “Force of habit.” 

*

“So, you have a roommate?” Dean asks, as they walk into Cas’ apartment. It's about the same size as the place he shares with Sam, except more of it’s open plan. Smaller kitchen. Dining table shoved against a wall and clearly used more as a desk, half taken over by books.

“Not currently,” Cas says, mouth tight, “I'll make up the spare bed for you later. It's doubtful that she will be back anytime soon.”

“So, this roommate exists?”

“She takes off,” Cas says, heading for the coffee pot. 

“Look, I don't wanna intrude. I can find a motel out of town or take the sofa -”

“The sofa is an implement of human torture if you sleep on it. Meg took her belongings this time, so…”

“Right. Meg. You told me about her before. She takes off, huh?”

“Leaving is one of her specialities. It's… She comes back, when she's had time, and then she does it again.”

“Sounds like she sucks,” 

“She’s complicated,” Cas says, “It...it was her that suggested we visit Mick in Britain that summer.”

“Is it okay that I kind of hate her guts?” Dean asks.

“No,” Cas says, “It was my decision. It should be my guts.”

Dean squares his jaw on automatic. 

“Well,” 

“You do hate me,” Cas says, looking at him, eyes wide and vulnerable. “I deserve that.”

“I tried to,” Dean says with a humorless smile.

“I was going to call you after I landed to explain,” Cas says, “But Gabriel -”

“ - I'm not here to dig into ancient history,” Dean snaps, “Not interested, Cas. I'm just checking that you're okay, hearing you out about your Dad, then I'm driving back home to Sam. We're not talking about before.”

Cas is silent for a few long moments. 

“My father,” Cas says, facing the coffee pot as he pours one for both of them. “Was… brilliant. At _physics_.”

Good. This, Dean can talk about. 

“And piss poor at fatherhood?” Dean asks, as Cas walks back towards him with two coffees and sets them down on the coffee table. Dean sits down on the torture-sofa which is a lot more comfortable than any of the motel beds he’s slept in since he left Kansas, but whatever. Cas sits down next to him heavily, weighing up his words as he passes him the coffee.

“I thought he was brilliant for a very long time. That was what he intended; total admiration and I, of course, fell for it.”

“Every kid thinks their dad is a superhero,” Dean says, “I wouldn't hear a bad word about him until he after he left for good and then not for a couple of months after that, never mind that I started paying the gas bill when I was sixteen and was raising Sammy for years before. That's kind of how the book of daddy issues goes, Cas.”

“Gabriel said your father wasn't very nice to you before he left.”

“He wasn't,” Dean says, chest tight. It's still difficult for him to talk about. It has become easier since he died, but that’s wrapped up in a whole load of other crap Dean doesn’t really want to dig in too much. This is important, though, because Cas is on the cusp of opening himself up for Dean to view. He is _this_ close to talking to him about it. “Everything was about Sam, and it... They argued. So from me he just wanted… Obedience, I guess, and someone who'd take his crap. Used to belittle the crap out of me. It, I never did enough to please him, you know? I was never good enough.”

“I hope you know that's not true,” Cas say, voice intimate, low, too much. It’s not _true_ either, because he wasn’t good enough for Cas either. Everything in this story would be different if Dean had, at any point, been good enough. 

“Yeah, well, Dad had his reasons,” Dean deflects. 

“My father wasn't particularly nice to me either,” Cas says, “He was controlling. Manipulative. Very intelligent. He arranged things so that I believed things about myself.”

“Like what?” 

“There were _reasons_ , as you said,” Cas says, gaze blue, sad, “And I have spent a great deal of time endeavouring to understand them so that I don't -” 

“ - become him?” Dean says, “Because you, you won't. Cas.”

“His father, my grandfather, considered him to be a disappointment. According to Hester, one of the last thing my grandfather said to him was that his efforts to please him were insufficient. My grandfather was not a good man: he engineered sibling rivalry amongst my uncles and aunts and was… Hester said he was ‘authoritarian’ and left it at that,” Cas says, looking at his coffee as he speaks, all of his words chosen deliberately. Cas has told this story before, if only in his head. He’s told this to himself.

Dean gets that. He _gets_ it. Has done the same, even if it’s never been so eloquent about it. 

“Alongside that, he was bullied, so he threw himself into school work believing college to be his great escape. It didn't work. He wasn't taken seriously. His father died in the middle of his first year and he transferred colleges and didn't speak to a member of the family for over a decade. I told you he had another family before me, about Jimmy, well -- that was in that time. He... Hester knew nothing about them, he disappeared from their family for years in an attempt to control his life himself; he wanted a do over. I believe he was trying to prove his worth by distancing himself from his family completely and utterly. He discovered his wife was going to leave him for someone she met at work, so he beat her to it. He walked out. He didn't leave a note, or a forwarding address, and he made no contact with them whatsoever until he needed the divorce to marry my mother.”

“She,” Dean begins, “Your mother. Cancer, right?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “He loved her desperately, Dean. I've read the emails my mother sent to Hester whilst she was dying, and he was different then. He had what he wanted the whole time; acceptance. A family. And she got _sick_ , and he lost her, and he was alone with a baby and no idea what to do. By then, he was a world renowned physicist. He understood the building blocks of the universe as much as anyone, but he could not _understand_ his life, or his misfortune. Hester offered him a route back into our family which, to everyone's surprise, he took. My mother wanted him to, which I believe is why he tried. Even still, he wasn't close to them. We attended Christmas and Thanksgiving for sixteen years before Hester told him that his parenting decisions would drive me away and I would leave and not speak to him again in an attempt to win me more freedom. He ended our visits with no explanation and didn't speak to her again until he emailed her three days ago. He must have believed her. That I would choose to leave, as he had done, and he was too selfish and proud to allow me the opportunity to make that decision myself, so he beat me to it. It’s a tragedy, Dean, of an individual desperate to control others opinions of him, to succeed and to prove himself brilliant to someone who no longer existed and never really cared, and in doing so broke his life.”

“And what about you, Cas?” Dean asks, watching him, with his hands clasped around his cup of coffee. “What about _you_?”

“I don’t know how I feel about him,” Cas says, “The generous version is of a broken man passing down his own insecurities to his son in the midst of a well-intended mission to protect him from pain. The other version is of a man who manipulated and controlled him son out of a desire to ensure he would not leave and would be so reliant on his word that disobedience wasn’t possible, who walked out when he realised that he was going to fail and that I would go to college, find some freedom, and cut him off entirely. You pick.”

“Pretty sure that call is up to you.”

“He taught me that there was no point expressing or feeling emotions if those emotions would not change reality. I - I believed, once, that it was because he did not have the energy or the desire to deal with my emotions alongside his own, but _perhaps_ that is the only way he knew how he knew how to function. He said that I was bad at making decisions and he may even have been right. He said that he homeschooled me because I was incapable of socialising with others- maybe he was projecting, or maybe he wanted me to be isolated. I don't know. I don't know, Dean. He was not a good father - it just comes down to whether he was a bad father because he was broken or because he intended to crush me.”

“That stuff, it's not true. You know that, right?”

“I know _now_ ,” Cas says, “I believed for a while that he never loved me, because I couldn't understand how he could love me and leave, but then I- sometimes it doesn't matter how much you love someone if you act in desperation to quiet the noise in your head.”

Dean's mouth is dry, back of his throat sharp, as he tries to work out whether Cas is being self deprecating or making a confession. How much of this is about him and how much is about Dean. How connected the two are in his head, anyway, and what Cas wants him to take away from any of it.

“And he wants to apologise?” Dean asks, refocusing the conversation, mangling the words on the way out, “You know which bit for?” 

“I have no idea,” Cas sighs, shuts his eyes and leans against the sofa, “My head hurts.”

Cas’ hangover is pretty much the only safe topic they’ve landed on since this started. 

“You taken painkillers at any point since you drank the liquor store?” Dean asks, setting his coffee down and shifting so that there’s more space between them, because god knows how they wound up so far in each other’s space on the sofa. He’s blaming Cas. Cas has always been shitty at personal space.

“No,” 

“Cause as much as I get the whole misery thy name is Castiel shtick, punishing yourself for getting drunk by dragging out the hangover ain't gonna help you make a decision, it's just going to mean you have a headache. Take some drugs and sleep it off. We can talk about it when you wake up.”

“Bed does sound very appealing.” 

“Listen to your body, Cas,”

“But you're here,” Cas says, eyes narrowed.

“Sam finishes his shift in half an hour, so I need to check in anyway. You got a tv. I'm easily entertained.”

“Okay,” Cas says, pauses, “This day is very surreal.”

“Tell me about it,” Dean says, as Cas starts heading to the door which Dean’s guessing leads to his bedroom, then stalls and turns around to look at him. 

“Sam… Sam works?”

“Not my idea. Don’t even start that with me.”

“If you want to use my laptop, the password is doughnut. Gabriel -”

“ - was being Gabriel,” Dean supplies, “Got it.”

“I have an essay open, but -” 

“Sleep,” Dean instructs. 

“There's coffee and soda-”

“ - Castiel.”

“Okay.” Cas says, then, “Thank you.”

_Sometimes it doesn't matter how much you love someone if you act in desperation to quiet the noise in your head._

Goddamnit.

“Hey,” Dean says when Sam rings him back in response to his ‘call me when you’re home’ text messages, thumbing through one of Cas’ textbooks because he's curious, a little bored and antsy as hell. He paced the outline of Cas’ apartment a few times to burn off some of his nervous energy, then began trying to work out the guy's life instead. 

There are a couple of pictures up in the kitchen of Cas and a brunette chick Dean's guessing is Meg, because there's one of them in matching Halloween outfits and Dean's pretty sure he remembers Cas mentioning that at some point. There's them with the waitress from the diner, Kelly, and a couple of others. A picture of the Miltons. None of Meg’s family that he can see of, but then Cas did say she took her stuff with her. Other than that, it's all pretty generic rental furniture and cheapish kitchen equipment. Novelty mugs either purchased by Gabriel or belonging to Meg. Cas buys organic, hipster bullshit coffee that tastes better than just about anything Dean's drank in his life. He doesn't appear to keep alcohol in the house, at all, and has almost no edible food in his fridge: bacon, cheese, half a pack of tomatoes that he should have thrown out ages ago. No condiments. Dried pasta.

Cas has books in three different languages, folders of notes from what appears to be every class he's ever taken, a box file full of letters from Anna that Dean puts back on the shelf as soon as he realize what they are (he’s digging, sure, but he’s not aiming to get _personal_ ). He'd bet all the money in his wallet that his books were once in alphabetical order, but are now just shoved on the shelf, haphazard, because every so often there's a semblance of order that sneaks through. His TV turns on to the cartoon network and the remote is down the side of one of the couch cushions. Dean’s got no idea why that one makes him smile, because there’s no fucking reason that the imagine of hungover Cas extracting philosophical conclusions from kids TV shows should be endearing, but it is. Cas owns sensible shoes that all look the freaking same, but are lined up next to the door. He owns a fountain pen. All the toiletries in his bathroom are from some organic beekeeper and smell like honey.

Cas is kind of a slob, or else is just fully able to make a mess in a single day of being hungover and not giving a damn. His damp towel has been dumped on the floor rather than hung up. There's a Yale hoodie screwed up on one of the chairs and he deposited his trench coat on the arm of the sofa when he came in. 

Cas has historically believed some pretty shitty things about himself, was brainwashed into not talking about his emotions and doesn't use the past tense when he talks about loving Dean in a thinly veiled not-so-subtle sense. He lives with someone who apparently has more issues than either of them put together, has a local coffee joint, reads books with titles Dean doesn't even understand and has been driving the world's suckiest car for four years. He actually talked to Dean about his father and looks more pathetic when hungover that anyone Dean's ever seen. He regrets leaving that summer.

He was going to call him. 

“What does ‘ecofeminism’ mean to you?” Dean continues, thumb skating down the page of Cas’ book.

“What?”

“The emergence of ecofeminism brings into question the fundamental notions of the relationship between nature and blah blah blah,” Dean says, flipping Cas’ book shut, “Dude, I don't know whether you're nerdy enough for Yale. If you don't even have an opinion on the emergence of ecofeminism…”

“You with Cas?” Sam asks, his eye roll almost audible.

“Yep. Kind of.” Dean says, “He's sleeping off his hangover while I bum around in his apartment. Turns out Cas is smart.” 

“What's his major?”

“I have absolutely no freaking idea,” Dean says, sitting back down on the sofa and wedging his phone under his ear, Cas’ book about Dean doesn’t-even-know-what spread out on his knees. Cas has left post-it note annotations on a couple of different chapters. God knows _why_ , but he kind of wants to keep skimming through it. “He hadn’t decided before and we skipped the small talk. I'll ask him when he wakes up. How was work?”

“Busy,” Sam says, “Good tips. How's it going?”

“You'll be pleased to know that Cas is making up the spare room for me for tonight.” Dean says, “It’s okay. Weird. Keeps trying to apologise about before.”

“He owes you more than an apology.” 

“His dad was a total dick, turns out,” Dean interjects, before Sam can launch into another of his Cas-sucks rants, because Dean really doesn’t want to hear it right now. He wants to keep reading Cas’ incomprehensible notes and absorbing all these little snapshots into Cas’ life in New Haven. The reality check Sam wants to thrust in his direction is the opposite of wanted. “An A-grade jackass. Told him he was some emotionless robot that had to do exactly what his Dad told him or he’d break the universe, or something. He… it wasn’t all his fault, Sammy.”

“Dean, no one’s denying he had stuff going on,” Sam counters, “Just - don’t get sucked in.”

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean says, gaze settling on a page where Cas has written ‘ _interesting_ ’ with two exclamation points next to a sentence that Dean understands less than half the words of. Dean traces his thumb over the post-it like a complete jackass. “I’m not going to get sucked in.” 

“Dean,”

“Give it a break,” Dean says, “I’m good. Better than ever. You headed over to Bobby’s for food later?”

“Like Bobby would let me skip it,”

“Good,” Dean says, because it means that he can ring Bobby tomorrow and check whether Sam is actually okay rather than just bullshitting to keep Dean from turning the impala back around and driving until he falls asleep at the wheel. “Where are we at with colleges? Yale is back on the list. Harvard is…?”

“Off the list,” Sam says, “Temporarily. I think.” 

“Stanford?”

“Still on,” Sam says, “As is Berkeley and Columbia.”

“Isn’t that the whole list we started with?” Dean asks, massaging his forehead.

“NYU,” Sam adds, “Which is off the list.”

“Rigghhtt,” Dean says, “Sammy, you’re _smart_.”

“You’re an idiot,” Sam smiles, “Dean, are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You know,” Sam says, quieter, “You’re only a few classes away from finishing _your_ degree. You could…”

“I _could_ ,” Dean agrees, “I could find a couple of random credits at the community college and finish up my scrubbed together degree that you and Bobby tricked me into in the first place and then do… absolutely fuck all with it for the rest of my life.”

“You’d have options.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my job, Sam.”

“I didn’t _say_ there was anything wrong with your job,” Sam says, a little irritable, “I just meant that…”

“Yeah, I get it,” Dean says, “Look, I gotta go. Cas’ll be up soon. Need to get my therapist hat on, scrub up on my germanic philosophy or whatever the hell else we’re gonna talk about when the daddy issues loses it’s shine. I’ll call you later. Defrost the Lasagna. It’s good. I promise.”

He winds up smiling at a note where Cas has written _this theory makes me very happy_ with a drawn on a smiley face for a good five minutes before he snaps out of it because, _goddamnit_ , he is not going to get sucked in. He is not going to get sucked in. He is not going to get sucked in.

Cas steps out of his room just after Dean’s starting reading a copy of Slaughterhouse 5 he found on the bottom shelf and, fuck, but an hour long nap has obviously cleared up the worst of his hangover. He’s gone from looking pale and vaguely sick, to looking fucking _incredible_ with his bed head and his eyes and his everything. Fuck.

“Uh,” Dean begins, sitting up, self-conscious and suddenly very aware that he’s been making himself very comfortable in the guy’s apartment considering how little they’ve seen each other in the past few years. “Hey.”

“Hello Dean,” Cas says, eyes fixed on him.

“Feeling better?”

“Much,” Cas says, “It is very… surreal to have you in my apartment.” 

“You know what I find surreal,” Dean throws back, “You don’t own any food.”

“I have food.”

“You have bacon,” Dean says, “No meals.”

“I intended to go grocery shopping yesterday,”

“Okay,” Dean says, shutting the book, “Let’s go grocery shopping.”

“You want to… go grocery shopping?” Cas asks, head tilted. The confusion is valid. It’s even dumber than them going out for breakfast rather than talking about any of their issues. It’s domestic and stupid, but he kind of needs to de-intense this whole thing. 

It seems unlikely that they can wind up staring and falling into deep conversation in Walmart.

“Guy’s gotta eat,” Dean says, “You bought breakfast, so I guess I'm cooking tonight.”

*

“I could use some air,” Cas says, after they’ve unloaded the groceries and Cas has made up the spare room and they’ve avoided talking about pretty much everything for a few hours. It’s been kind of nice. It’s felt simple, even if that’s the furthest thing from the truth. “Do you want a tour of Yale?”

It’s much, much easier to agree than to refocus on anything close to relevant.

Anyway, he promised Sam he’d check out Yale. 

*

“You still like mexican food?” Dean asks, leaning against the counter in Cas’ kitchen as he pulls out the mince and onions they (Cas) purchased earlier.

“If I didn’t, I probably would have mentioned something before you purchased taco shells,”

“Smartass,” Dean throws back, “Think I preferred it when you were too hungover to sass me.”

“Really?” Cas asks, enough of a smirk hanging round his mouth that it’s clear the guy knows it’s straight up bullshit. Falling into their old rhythm has been sort of awesome, if confusing and an astronomically shitty idea. 

“You heard from Kelly yet?”

“Yes,” Cas says, watching him chop onions, “Six text messages and a further three from her roommate, Hannah.”

“Which is Hannah?” Dean asks, nodding at the pictures on the fridge..

Cas’ finger settles on one of the other brunettes in the photos. 

“And this is Meg,” 

“Figured,” Dean says, “So that guy is…?”

“Mick,”

“Right,” Dean says, “ _Mick_.” 

“Dean,” Cas says quietly, “That’s -”

“- I like Yale,” Dean cuts across, “It’s beautiful. Green. Old.” 

“Yes,” Cas agrees, “It is indeed _old_. Dean -”

“ - hey, why don’t we talk about your Dad some more?” Dean says, knife hovering over the damn onion but pausing in chopping, because there’s a very real chance that Dean might cut his own fingers off the rate his heart is going right now. “That was a fun topic.”

“You’re no less infuriating than you were two years ago,” 

“I came here for _one_ reason, Cas, and it sure as hell wasn’t to talk about that.”

“To cook me tacos?” Cas suggests, radiating frustration in his damn kitchen and -- Damnit, Cas has a _point_. He’s been dragging this whole thing out, needlessly, because he kind of wants to be here. He has no goddamn idea _why_ , but Cas makes him all kinds of crazy. He’s irritated and confused and acting like an asshole.

Not that Cas doesn’t deserve it.

“No,” Dean says, “Don’t you have some college work to do, or something? Last I heard studying was hard.”

“I have an essay,”

“Awesome,” Dean says, “Do your essay, I’ll cook.” 

“I don’t,” Cas begins, then sighs, “I need to call Hester. Unless I can be of assistance -”

“ -nope,” Dean cuts across, “Go call Hester. I’ll hold the fort.”

*

“Did you tell Hester I was here?” Dean asks, after he’s set down their tacos on Cas’ coffee table and slumped down on the sofa to eat. Cas has more or less stayed out of his way since he drove him out the kitchen, which is probably a good thing for Dean’s sanity.

Dean is not going to get sucked in.

“No,” Cas says, “I have absolutely no idea how to explain this to her,”

“Yeah,” Dean says, grabbing his taco, “The conversation pretty much tanked with Sam, too. Is she… she worried?”

“Undoubtedly,” Cas says, “She can be… overwhelming, at times. I told her I went drinking with Kelly and Hannah to avoid her sending Gabriel here to speak to me about my feelings.” 

“She cares about you,” Dean says, through a mouthful of taco, “That’s not something to shake a stick at.”

“I am very lucky to have Hester,” Cas returns, “Having people care is a big responsibility, sometimes.”

“Interesting way of looking at it,” Dean comments, stomach clenching, because _Cas_ has no idea. He never did get what it looked like to suddenly find yourself totally alone. He always had security wrapped up in Hester and Inias. He had a _family_. Without Bobby, Dean’s got no idea what would have happened to him. He’s going to owe Bobby for the rest of his life. “Eat before it goes cold.”

“She has forwarded me the email from my father,” Cas says, pulling it up on his phone and pressing it into Dean’s hands before picks up his own plate. 

As emails go, it’s pretty innocuous. Without the backstory he would have no idea that the ‘apology’ the guy is referencing is for walking out on a seventeen year old kid with no notice or warning. It’s all very… deliberate. Formal. He writes ‘Dear Hester’ and calls Cas ‘his son’ without naming him. There’s nothing in there that extends the apology to Hester, or any reference to the fact that Cas went to go and live there after he left. Maybe the guy just assumed that’s what would happen, the way John Winchester just _assumed_ that Dean would find some way of taking care of Sam without anyone else getting involved.

_I would like to offer an apology and an explanation to my son. I would appreciate it if you could pass on his contact details and his current address so that I am able to arrange to speak to him face to face._

“You buying this?” Dean asks, setting his phone down and drinking in Cas again. He’d been quiet while showing him around Yale campus, occasionally slipping into good humour before remembering himself. He’s upset. His equilibrium has been knocked for six and Dean’s not all that sure that he’s anything but a distraction, right now.

He can do that. Dean can be a helluva good distraction.

“I don’t know,” Cas says, frowning into his food.

He doesn’t say another damn thing until after they’ve finished eating. Dean takes their plates back to the kitchen because he’s already established Cas is a slob and, anyway, the guy looks a lot like it all just hit him all over again. That now his hangover and the shock of Dean showing up out of the blue is over, there’s a little too much space for him to focus. 

_It’s a tragedy, Dean, of an individual desperate to control others opinions of him, to succeed and to prove himself brilliant to someone who no longer existed and never really cared, and in doing so broke his life._

“So,” Dean begins, sitting down heavily, “You learned all that stuff about your Dad from Hester and Jimmy, huh?”

“Yes,” Cas says, gaze still fixed on the coffee table. Every second Dean spends watching Cas be sad about this makes him want to punch his dad in the face a little more, but there is no chance he’s going to influence Cas’ decision about this. Dean made his choice and had to live with it. It’s too damn big for Dean to do anything but listen. “I wanted to understand him.”

“Yeah, I, I know that feeling. Did it help?”

“I don’t know,” Cas says, “I have thought about him more than I wanted to when I began searching for answers, but it feels easier with understanding. My life changed because of something, it didn't just change.”

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, “And would you, if he… say he had stuck around and you went to college and you had that realisation. That he's been putting his crap on you, or that he's been manipulating you, whichever it is - was Hester right? Would you have walked away?”

“I don't know,” Cas says again, maudlin, gaze downward. “I would have been worse off. Without going to Lawrence, living with Hester, meeting you. It would have been _worse_. The Miltons accepted me as family and they… I had very low self-esteem, Dean, I don’t know how long it would have taken me if he hadn’t left. Can I still detest him for leaving even though it was ultimately better for me?”

“Sure,” Dean says, “You can do or feel whatever the hell you want.” 

“Has your father been in contact again?” Cas asks, looking up at him. Dean breaks their gaze to work out what the hell he can even say to that, blinking at the damn coffee table.

“Uh,” Dean says, his mouth struggling to find the right words, because they still taste a little ashy when he thinks about it too much. “He's dead,” he says, finally. “Hit n’ run.”

Cas stalls completely, expression morphing into pure, undiluted horror. “Dean,” Cas says, voice deep gravel, dragged through all sorts of old hurts on it's way out. “Why did you let me talk about my father all day, when -?”

“Cas,” Dean cuts across, hand on his arm which is probably an error, because he’s been doing a damn good job of keeping all physical contact to zero all day. “It's okay, man. I came out here knowing what you wanted to talk about, it's not an issue.” 

“He died?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Two years ago.”

“Gabriel didn't tell me.”

“Not really talking to Gabriel, Cas,” Dean sighs, shifting on Cas’ sofa, withdrawing his hand to rest it on his own knee instead. He hadn't wanted to get into it, but it feels like it was inevitable. It was too close to the current topic of conversation. Too similar. 

“I thought,” Cas begins, eyes downturned and guilty. Sad. “I am sorry that I cost you that relationship.”

Damnit. He didn’t want to talk about this. Didn’t want to get into it, because it’s not fixable and it’s not forgivable, so the only thing he can do is forget about it and pretend it didn’t happen. 

“It doesn't matter. I got all the people I need, anyway.”

“You mean Sam.”

“And a couple of others,” Dean says, “There's no point talking about that, Cas. It's done.”

“Were you okay? When you heard about your father?”

“No,” Dean says, too much air leaving his lungs, so that Dean has to spend a few moments concentrating on breathing properly. “It was bad, Cas. I was really angry back then. Not just at Dad, but you, Sam, Sonny, Ellen. Gabriel, even. I pulled some dumb crap. Damn near nearly got myself killed drunk driving and it wasn't - I knew what I was doing, let's say. But I've had time and it - I'm okay now.”

Cas’ mouth tips into a frown, then he shakes his head slightly. He's upset. Dean probably would have expected as much, but it's more than that. More upset than Dean would have expected him to be. It’s the most obviously emotional Cas has been since he showed up.

“Cas, what's up?”

“I didn't know,” Cas says, “You were hurting and I wasn't there. It's selfish of me to make your grief about me, I know, I just, I would have liked to have been there and instead I made things worse.”

Dean feels like his chest is being pulled taunt, stretched too thin.

“I was… I was this close to calling you.”

“And then you remembered I'm just your high school ex who abandoned you,” Cas says, mouth a sad line. “I'm sorry. I have no right to presume you would call me given what I did, but I - ”

“ - yeah, I dunno about that,” Dean says, smiling humorlessly, “We were something, Cas, we really were. You saved me over and over.” 

“I loved you.”

Past tense, this time. 

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says, voice low, “And if you want, next time someone dies, I'll call you.”

“You don't have to,” Cas says, mouth still pulled downwards, “I am very sorry about your father.”

“It's okay. I've had some time,” Dean says, “It doesn’t change the fact that he walked out, you know? There were reasons, like you said. It… it is what it is.”

“I would have tried to help.”

“And you probably would've,” Dean says, “but it's complicated. Our whole damn history is complicated and it’s not… its not like those feelings just go away.”

“Your feelings,” Cas says, watching him, close, serious.

“Right,”

“You shut me down last time I asked,” Cas says, in that gravel-rich voice, quiet, and Dean knows exactly what’s coming. Should have expected it, given their current circumstances. Given everything. “Did you love me?”

Goddamnit.

“I drove eight hundred miles three years after the fact,” Dean says, with a bitter smile, “What do you think?” 

Cas scans his face in that familiar, intense way of his, and then he leans forward and kisses him. It’s a closed-mouth nothing kiss. An acknowledgement that Dean had to pull those words out by force. That none of this has ever come easy for Dean. It’s _Dean_ that reaches a hand to his cheek to stop him pulling away, that kisses him again, that stays close enough that their noses bump together as Cas looks at him.

“Dean,” Cas says, a question. Dean’s got no idea what he’s asking, but it’s too late now, anyway. Dean has officially been sucked it. Cas is emotional and upset and talking about it doesn’t feel like it’s helped all that much. He can be a _distraction_ , though. He can be here. It’s the first time he’s had that luxury in a long time. 

“Do you trust me?” Dean breathes, and it lands better this time, and Cas almost nods before he reaches forward and kisses him again.

It’s probably not the best idea Dean’s ever had.

At first, he's rationalizing it in his head that he's being whatever Cas needs him to be right now: a warm body to get him through the night, a comfort fuck, as it were. Dean's here and _he gets it_ and Cas is emotional and needs somewhere to channel it that isn’t going to decimate his liver. At this point, Dean's no stranger to sex without commitment; fleeting, temporary, fun. This is different, because it's Cas, but he figures he can still be ephemeral. He usually is and that’s _fine_ and good and par for whatever the course Dean’s currently on that he’s never taken the time to work out.

Except, obviously Cas is different. He's always been more serious about sex than anyone Dean's ever been with; always deliberate, sincere, giving all of himself in every open mouth kiss. And Dean hasn't been with a guy for ages. He finds, generally, woman are simpler. Simpler to pick up in a bar without venturing from his usual haunts, and he's confident enough to charm them with his eyes shut. Cas has always made him nervous. Held him on edge, just a little.

Cas inside him is just- too much, with Cas’ hot breath in his ear, body so damn familiar yet different, more accustomed to how Dean's body works than anyone else because he’s the only one who’s ever stuck around to find out. He's everywhere, all at once, so that even after it’s done and he's pulled away Dean kisses him again and again, because it feels suddenly very clear that he's not done being close to Cas. No-fucking-way.

The urgency settles after a while. Cas turns and shifts so that Dean has one hand settled on his hip and the other on his stomach. Cas runs hot, always has. He smells like his damn honey shampoo and Dean is so fucking screwed. 

“I don't know whether I want to speak to him,” Cas says, raw and painful.

“That's okay,” Dean mutters into his earlobe, “You don't have to know that yet. I've got you.”

“I am very glad you’re here, Dean,” Cas says into the dark and it feels like a pretty serious declaration. It feels _big_ and it makes Dean want to start spewing sentimental crap. It makes him want to say stupid things like the fact that right now, in this moment, he’s _happy_. He can’t remember the last fucking time he was happy, but right now he’s feeling it. He feels like he could set up shop in this moment, pitch his tent and live in it forever. He has no fucking idea how it happened.

There’s a good chance that Cas means ‘I am very glad you’re here’ in the sense that Cas is glad he’s not alone. That he’s glad Dean showed up to help him through his father related crisis, not that _Dean_ in particular makes him glad.

“I’ve got a question,” Dean says. Cas shifts to look at him and Dean can just about make out his features in the dark of Cas’ apartment; he’s curious, open, but still sad running under all of it. “What the _fuck_ does ecofeminism mean?”

Cas smiles in the dark, wide and lovely, then twists to kiss him again. Dean tangles his hand through Cas’ bedhead, closes his eyes and lets the light, satisfied feeling of actually being content for the first time in forever take the lead. 

Dean shouldn’t have promised Sam a damn thing.


	4. Chapter 4

He wakes up _happy_.

He’s not expecting it. It takes him completely by surprise in the moments after he wakes up, rolling over him in waves. He’s _happy_. He’s got no fucking idea what to do with that knowledge, because he never really had a chance to _be happy_. Coming home to Sam lazing on his sofa, cooking them both dinner or doing his homework with his feet up on the couch, is as close to it as he’s achieved and _then_ it didn’t take long until the arguments and the impermanence of it all sunk in. There was always this underlying tension, because Sam got himself emancipated in part because John Winchester got himself killed and in part as a royal fuck you to the whole damn system. Now they fight all the damn time and Dean wakes up every freaking day wondering how far Sam is gonna run away from him so that he gets to be ‘normal’ for once in their goddamn lives. Dean’s not even sure he can hold that against him (except that he does), because he gets it. Its natural. It's the most normal thing in the world that Sam wants to lose some of the Winchester baggage and just _be_ , it just sucks that Dean's happiness is so tied up in Sam's well-being and looking after him that it all gets too complicated for him to take a breather and smell the roses.

But, apparently, all it takes is Cas actually talking to him about his emotional baggage. Cas sitting on his sofa and saying what’s in his head, rather than burying it and running away. It has been three fucking years since they were in an actual relationship and _one night_ has him feeling like he swallowed a cocktail of freaking rainbow and moonbeams. He woke up _smiling_ like a major douchebag. Fucking _Castiel_ , who's still dead asleep and goddamn adorable and solid and warm.

Dean swallows and gets up, because there’s no damn way he’s gonna lie there and watch Cas sleep. No fucking _way_ is he that pathetic, even if a lot of the damn signs right now are pointing to him being just about that pathetic. His phone is in his jeans pocket cause he was too distracted to plug it in last night, which means that it’s down to fifteen percent charge. He uses that as an excuse not to read any of the four messages he’s got from Sam, because he’s going to have questions that Dean sure as hell doesn’t have answers for.

His phone charger is in the spare room where Dean had every intention of sleeping before Cas acted all _Cas_. He grabs it before heading to the kitchen and trying to work out where the hell that leaves him. Except, it winds up more obvious than he thought.

Dean _wants_ this. Cas. He wanted it the whole fucking time, he just didn’t have the luxury of admitting it before. He didn’t have the time or the headspace or the ability to make any of this work. That probably hasn’t changed. It’s probably still impossible, but at least now he’s got the emotional capability to admit that if he could rearrange the whole damn universe in his favour, he’d get this. Cas.

And if he’s already screwed in the first place, he might as well go the whole hog and bring him breakfast in bed.

They purchased eggs yesterday anyway. 

A message from Bobby rolls in just after he’s started making himself one of Cas’ expensive as fuck hipster coffees. He’s back up to twenty percent battery, so Dean calls him rather than bother typing out a text so that he can multitask.

“Why is it that every freaking person has better coffee making facilities than me?” Dean asks after Bobby's picked up, topping up his mug and taking a sip. If he wasn't already goddamn chirper this morning, this would put him over the edge.

“I'll get you a damn cafetiere for your birthday if it'll quit your whining.”

“Christmas is sooner,” Dean says, “How's Sam?”

“Buy me a drink first,” Bobby grumbles, “Your brother’s fine. You've been gone ten minutes.”

“Yeah, well, I worry.”

“Don't we all know it,” Bobby says, “He tells me you're in New Haven.”

“Yep,” Dean says, wedging the phone under his ear as he takes the bacon out the fridge. 

“Uh uh. And how's _that_ going, pray?”

“Like I said, Cas has got good coffee,” Dean says, “S’fine, Bobby.” 

“And I hear you spent a few days hauled up in Indiana.”

“I find it tragic that the only thing you and Sam have to talk about it my business, you freaking gossip.”

“I suppose you've told Castiel all about that?”

“Near enough. I'm pretty sure Cas doesn't wanna hear the details,” Dean says, “You gonna give me a hard time, old man?”

“Nope,” Bobby grunts, “You sound sixteen times more cheerful than you did last time you spoke to me, so I ain't got a bad word to say about it. You do whatever the hell it is that makes you happy, even if it's dumb.”

“You’re a real peach,” Dean grins, sliding his phone down and setting it on to speaker so that he can start scrambling eggs. “Real salt of the earth.”

“Mhmm. I just hope you know what you're doing.”

“I think I do,” Dean says, adding the bacon to the pan, even though he has absolutely no freaking clue what he’s doing. He feels pretty good about it right now, though.

“And you're okay?”

“You know me, Bobby,” Dean says, “Introspection and the lonely open road? Sign me the hell up.” Bobby snorts. “Seriously, I'm okay,” Dean continues, turning the heat on the frying pan down, “Wish Sam would stop riding my ass so hard, but other than that…”

“Give him some space, Son. Bobby says, “kid’ll come crawling back to you. That's what teenagers do.”

Dean glances up from his pan to see Cas paused in the doorway, expression crumpled into confusion, which figures. He’s missing a whole lot of context for this situation. 

“I gotta go Bobby, I’ll call you later, okay?” Dean says, before hanging up and setting his phone down on the counter, flushing slightly. “Morning.” Dean says, passing him the other coffee.

“Bobby,” Cas frowns, “Principle Singer?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “That’s a thing.”

“And you got a tattoo,” Cas says as he takes the coffee off him, but otherwise doesn't move for a few long seconds as the moment settles around them like snow. Last night was _good_. Better than good. It was raw. It dragged up this whole host of feelings, acute and painful, giving way to _peace_. It's been a long time since sex with Cas has made him feel anything but shitty in the aftermath, or at least the aftermath of the aftermath. Right now, Cas is pretty unreadable; expression still, gaze flickering down to his chest and his tattoo, then back up to his face. There’s still chance for it to tank. 

His fucking _tattoo_ is the most inane thing they could be talking about right now.

“Me and Sam got matching ones,” Dean says, “Protection symbol Mom used to wear on this bracelet.”

“Your brother isn't eighteen,” Cas says, looking at him over his coffee.

“He got tall.”

“Taller than you?”

“Yes, actually,” Dean says, drinking in the way Cas' lips pull up into a smile, the first real expression Cas has committed to today. It looks good on him. Being half asleep and barely dressed looks good on him, too, and Dean probably shouldn’t be dwelling on his sweatpants and his one-sock-on one-sock-off look too much, given Dean lives over a thousand miles away and this whole thing is a really terrible idea.

“I can’t imagine that,”

“Sure as hell took me by surprise,” Dean says, stretching out his arms over his head and glancing back towards the pan. Cas tracks the movement with his eyes and, right, Dean is topless too, and they slept together last night. “You got plates in this joint?” Dean asks, even though he knows the guy has plates. He cooked yesterday and he did a full recon of pretty much everything in Cas’ apartment, it just feels a little rude not to ask when Cas is staring at him.

“I...you were gone,” Cas says, _finally_ moving, and heading towards the cupboards and pulling out plates. “When I woke up. I thought-”

“Cas,” Dean cuts across, throat a little thick, “Don’t get me wrong, I get that there’d be some fucked up poetry in that, but _I’m_ not the one that leaves.”

“I know,” Cas says, voice quiet. Goddamnit. He doesn’t want to talk about that. Dean really, really does not want to talk about that. “I'll clear space at the table for us to eat.”

“Huh. You actually use your table for eating? I figured it was some kind of bookcase overflow.”

“I wasn't actually expecting guests, Dean,”

“You invited me,” Dean counters, voice teasing as he brings both plates through and sets them next to each other on the corner of table Cas has cleared of books and notes. “Not my fault you forgot about it.”

“Was Sonny irritated?” Cas asks, when Dean's sat down. “About Sam’s tattoo?”

Right. For all that they talked yesterday, they didn’t exactly do the small talk. They talked about big things. About Cas’ _Dad_ and Dean’s Dad and they touched on some of the mess of their relationship, but he still didn’t ask about Cas’ major and they didn’t talk about Dean’s job or about any of the other mundane life-stuff. 

“He’s, uh, not at Sonny’s anymore,” Dean says, pausing with a fork halfway to his mouth just to look at him some more. There should be more distance between them. It should feel like they don’t know each other anymore, but it doesn’t. A lot has happened. “He’s… the cliff notes is, he lives with me now.” 

Cas puts his fork down and tilts his head at him. 

“Clearly I was very remiss in asking about you yesterday,” Cas says, “You have custody of your brother?”

“Uh, no,” Dean says, “Kid circumvented the whole issue by talking his own ass to court and getting himself emancipated. I...it's pretty damn unlikely I'd have swung it myself. Lost my temper too many times in Ellen's office to be considered a good candidate, but Sam - he told me he'd do it. Started researching it a little after Dad died, approached the family court people after he turned sixteen. Talked some lawyer into helping him out pro bono. Won his case just before christmas last year. Moved in with me the following week.”

“That's very impressive,”

“That's _Sammy_ ,” Dean says, taking another drink of his coffee. 

“I like the tattoo.”

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean says, smiling slightly, “Gotta say, I picked up on that last night, but I appreciate the sentiment.” 

“You’re an ass,” 

“I missed you too,” Dean throws back. It’s a lot more serious than he was intending to be, but it’s not like he doesn’t _mean_ it. He has missed Cas. He may not have realised it, but now he's here it's pretty damn obvious. He’s really, really missed Cas.

“Do you want more coffee?” Cas asks, expression flat again. Not a good sign. Not entirely what he was expecting.

“Yeah,” Dean says, swallowing, as Cas takes his empty plate and half empty cup of coffee. He finds himself turning to following Cas’ movements around the kitchen, twisting in his chair to just watch him move. Dean’s a total sucker, but there’s no one here to judge him but Cas, anyway, and he’s relatively sure Cas already knows.

“I didn't like waking up and thinking you were gone,” Cas says, with his back turned.

He wants to say _no shit, Cas. What do you think it felt like for me?_ but he’s not ready to go there. He’s not touching that conversation with a ten foot pole. Not right now, when it feels like someone's inflated a balloon in his chest.

“For the record,” Dean says, swallowing, “I am gonna need to leave at some point on the basis that I live in Kansas and my seventeen year old kid brother is home alone not throwing parties and wild orgies, but I promise that I’ll… uh, give you plenty of notice before I take off.”

Cas turns around.

“Why are you here?”

“Didn't we go through this?” Dean asks, voice flat.

“No, I don’t mean _here_. I mean… this road trip. Leaving your brother alone while he's at school doesn't seem in keeping with your usual priorities.” 

“Oh, that,” Dean says, frowning at his coffee, “I was banished to find myself.”

“What?”

“Sam,” Dean says, “Ganged up on me. We - I sold a car. It's a long story.”

“I have time,”

“Don't you have some fancy ass college to go to?”

“I don't have classes till this afternoon.”

“Slacker,” Dean comments, smiling, as Cas washes up their plates.

“You sold a car?” Cas prompts.

“We really doing this?” Dean exhales, “I fixed it, then I sold it, I went on a road trip. Done.”

“Dean,”

“Once upon a time, there was a car,” Dean says, shifting his chair round to continue Cas’ progress round the kitchen. There’s something about watching him dry the plates and put them away that makes the warm contented feeling in his gut overflow a little more. “ And there was a hot mechanic called Dean…”

“You’re impossible,” Cas smiles, taking the seat next to him again, close enough that their feet almost touch. “I want to know the real reason.”

“Okay, fine. There was this bust up old chevy that Bobby paid a hundred dollars for scrap a million years ago and I… it was right after I got my shit together after Dad, so I started fixing her up for something to clear my head and it escalated into this whole _thing_.”

“You mean that you restored the car?”

“Yeah, that. Turns out she was worth something by the time I was done.”

“Something?”

“Yeah, something.”

“Dean, you’re undervaluing yourself. It’s very infuriating.” 

“ _Okay_ ,” Dean sighs, “I sold the car for a lot, _but_ I put the last couple of parts on credit to get it done, and the guy who bought it was a goddamn idiot for paying that much. Didn't deserve that car, but - whatever. The car was supposed to be for Sam in the first place, so he’d have something decent to drive, so the whole thing was actually a massive freaking failure, but the upshot is that I had some money. Sam’s been riding the ‘I don’t need financial assistance’ train hard, even though the kid doesn’t have a freaking clue how broke he’s gonna be, but that’s a fight for another day.” 

“You and Sam fight?”

“You want the road trip story first, or to dig into the rest of my baggage?”

“Yes, continue. You now have means, I think we’re just seeking method and motive.” 

“Cute, Cas. Rufus demands I take a vacation because I haven't taken annual leave for a couple of the annuals, I figure me and Sam could take an actual vacation for the first time since Mom died, Sam agrees and we make our great american adventure plan. Then Sam got this internship with that lawyer - who helped with the emancipation thing - then he has a college related meltdown, cancels and tells me I still have to go. I delayed till it would have the least amount of impact on Sam's studying, then conceded and left to stop him bitching at me.”

“The internship will look good on his applications,” Cas says evenly.

“Et tu, Brutus? He chucked me out my damn apartment.”

“To find yourself,” Cas deadpans.

“ _I'm going to college, Dean, you need to get yourself a life, Dean,”_ Dean says, in a high pitched intimation that doesn't sound like a damn thing his brother. “The kid is a royal pain in my ass.”

“You're very proud of him,” Cas observes, smiling slightly. “Which colleges is he looking at?”

“Feels like all of them,” Dean says, “Hasn't started applications yet. I guess a lot of it will come down to funding cause, like I said, he’s being pretty pig headed about me not paying for a damn thing - Stanford, Harvard, etc.”

“Yale?” Cas asks, his gaze balancing on a needle point, voice very even. It’s an innocent enough question, in theory. It’s a potential in a long list of potentials. It’s the smallest, slimiest possibility. It’s just… a big question.

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, watching him, “Yale is on the list.”

“Would you,” Cas begins, then stalls, “Would you move with him?”

“Depends on if he'll let me,” Dean says, mouth dry, “He's, you know, independent.”

“Dean,” Cas says, voice on the edge of something and something Dean’s not all that sure he can deal with right now. He has absolutely no idea what Cas is thinking. They haven’t so much as touched this morning. Cas, for all that he’s poured out his soul about his father, is still unfathomable. Unreachable.

“I could really use doing some laundry,” Dean declares, standing up and forcing his voice into _light_ and easy and not nearing the massive complication that is Dean being here in the first place. 

“Laundry,” Cas repeats. 

“Laundry,” Dean affirms. Cas looks at him. He’s still sleep-ruffled and freaking gorgeous as he dissects the mundane crap that’s fallen out of Dean’s mouth and processes whether he’s going to push back at Dean’s not-talking-about-it routine, or just let is slide for an easy morning. He looks a little way off _impressed_ about it, but it’s early. He’s been in New Haven less than twenty four hours. He’s only had one and a half cups of Cas’ kick-ass coffee this morning. Dean’s pretty sure any conversation they need to have can wait, at least until they’ve digested breakfast. 

“There’s a machine in the basement,” Cas says, dragging his gaze over him, “You should probably put a shirt on first.”

“Okay then,” Dean says, offering a smile that’s a helluva lot cockier than he actually feels. 

*

“You’re doing well,” Cas says, after he’s loaded up the machine with his crap on the shortest spin cycle, then turned back to face him. There’s maybe a twelve inch distance between them thanks to the way the machines are spaced out in Cas’ buildings, which feels in equal parts unsurmountable and _so_ damn close to where he wants to be. 

“I guess.”

“You are, Dean,” Cas says, just loud enough for Dean to hear him over the hum of the machine that they’re apparently waiting out. The shortest cycle is fifteen minutes which works out fine for the couple of shirts and jeans he needed to wash now that he’s further away from Sam that he ever intended to be, pushing back the end of his trip at least _some_ amount. Cas dependent. “You were on the phone to… Bobby?”

“Yeah. Bobby's good to us,” Dean says, watching him. He’s got no fucking idea how the tension levels have increased since they both actually got dressed, but it happened. It’s just _Cas_ and the way he holds himself, spine ramrod straight, every gesture deliberate and spilling out meaning all over the place. He can’t quit looking at him and he’s having a hard time concentrating on the words coming out of his mouth and coming up with intelligent conversation.

“He called you son,”

“Yeah, he,” Dean swallows, “Know it’s sounds kind of whacked, but he’s, he’s been like a father to us. He's good. Bailed me out enough times.” 

“I had no idea you were still in contact,”

“Well,” Dean says, a slight bitterness creeping into his smile, “That’d be cause _we’re_ not in contact.” 

“I have,” Cas says, stops, meets his gaze, which is enough to send Dean’s head spinning again. Damnit. “I have missed you too.”

“I know,” Dean says, hands in his pockets, even though there’s so many other, better, places available right now. He’s waiting for Cas’ cue on this one. He’s going to stand at arm’s length and just soak in his presence until he has any indication that Cas wants anything else because he has _no fucking idea_ what Cas wants (the fact that he doesn’t know what he wants other than immediate proximity is a side issue and one he’s tabling for another time; he needs distance, for that). 

“You took me by surprise earlier,” Cas says, forming the words slowly, purposefully. “I’m not accustomed to you being so candid about how you feel.” 

“I, yeah,” Dean nods, “Not my speciality. You gotta… read between the lines.”

“You,” Cas begins, restarts, frowns a little more. Refocuses. “Were you happy about Sam’s decision?”

“Wish I could’ve gotten him back myself,” Dean says, “But that… wasn’t gonna happen. I couldn’t’ve pulled it off. I _tried_ , but Sam’s way worked. It was quick and dirty and felt like we were throwing everything back in Sonny and Ellen’s face, but it worked. Scares the crap out of me that he can take off, if he wants, and no one’s gotta protect him from himself.” 

“You would have prefered guardianship?” Cas asks, looking a little like he’s struggling to focus on the actual content of their conversation, too. Dean watches the movement of his throat as he swallows. 

“He shouldn’t’ve had to give up his right to be a kid, Cas. If I could’ve not been an adult at seventeen. At eighteen, even…”

“How long have you been driving?”

“This is day seven,” Dean says, running his tongue over his lips self consciously, swallowing as Cas’ gaze follows the movement. Goddamnit. “I have, uh, ten days till Sam’s got his midterms. Two weeks till I’m back at work.”

“You have some time then,”

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, “I have, I have time.”

“Where were you planning on driving?”

“Cas,” Dean says, chest constricting, hopelessly.

“Damnit,” Cas mutters, then he’s crossing the twelve inches of space, resting a hand on the rough of Dean’s cheek to guide him forward and kiss him again. It’s fucking _everything_ and Dean’s doomed, but he doesn’t even give a damn, because it’s worth it to be able to wrap his arms around Cas’ back, let Cas back him up against freaking washing machine and give in to the overwhelming tide of _feeling_ that’s rising up to the surface. He’s happy. Dean’s _happy_ and he’s going to let himself have this, for once in his life, even if it’s probably going to hurt like hell when reality sinks back in.

Cas doesn’t take a step back until the laundry’s done. Then he sets the machine onto _dry_ , presses their foreheads together for a brief moment before his hands settle on Dean’s lower back like they’re supposed to be there, and then they’re kissing again, long and slow, like they’re freaking teenagers with only the vague concept of a destination in mind. Dean’s pretty sure he hasn’t made out with someone for the sake of making out _since_ Cas and he’d more or less forgotten the appeal. 

It’s probably a good thing they’re keeping their clothes on, even if engaging in some serious necking in the goddamn laundry room isn’t a whole lot _less_ confusing than the ill advised sex.

“To be clear,” Cas asks, pulling away after who-the-hell knows how long, voice rougher than usual, hair a goddamn disaster. Dean needs to record the way Cas sounds right now so that he’ll still be able to remember the exact gravity of his timbre when he’s back in Lawrence, alone. “Did we establish that you’re staying a few days?”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, with Cas close and warm and fucking incredible. “Pretty sure we did.”

“We should have bought more groceries,” Cas says, deadly serious, and Dean’s laughing when Cas tries to chase his lip down to kiss him again.

*

Sam calls him during his school lunch break, by which point Dean’s got Cas’ legs resting across his lap as the guy mutters obscenities at his essay (his one ‘pressing deadline’ that needs doing before Dean’s undetermined departure date, which he’s speed finishing before his afternoon classes. Apparently, everything else can wait. Dean’s dubious and fairly confident that Cas will remember that he’s a total dork who takes academic failure as a personal insult tomorrow, but whatever). Dean’s channel flicking which Cas has deemed ‘annoying’ three times without making any effort to move or make him stop, and he’s having a really freaking good Monday.

He hits ‘reject’ on Sam’s call before it rings a second time. He can’t explain _this_ to Sam with the warm weight of Cas’ legs _right there_ and when he’s paying more attention to Cas muttering about ancient greek that the episode of Dr Sexy he just stumbled across. He doesn’t have anything to say about it, except that he feels really good about what’s happening right now.

Anyway, Sam’s only calling to tell remind him not to sleep with Cas for the fifteenth time and that ship sailed last night (and nearly again, earlier, until Cas’ deadline won out over their collective shitty judgement). If he wasn’t in New Haven right now, he’d be chewing at the bit trying to keep Sam on the phone for over five minutes at a time. Sam doesn’t want to talk to him, he just wants to give him another freaking lecture, which is pretty rich from a seventeen year old kid who doesn’t have a damn clue how Dean feels right about now.

Bobby said _give him space_ , so Dean types out a ‘can’t talk now. Call you later’ before turning his phone off. 

“Cas,” Dean says, poking him in the knee to get his attention, which wins him a dark look worthy of a place on Sam’s bitchface wall of fame. “What’s your major?”

“Philosophy,” Cas says, frowning at him.

“Awesome,” Dean says, resting his remote control free hand on the section of Cas’ calf draped across him, “And you - that’s thinking and crap? Old dead guys and how-do-I-know-if-I’m-dreaming? What do I get if I play that ‘why?’ game that six year olds do to drive their parents crazy for four years?”

“I think the prospectus describes it as the study of the essential issues of the universe, such as existence, reason, language and the mind, but you’re essentially correct,” Cas says, “Your version is certainly less up itself.”

“And you must be coming up to finishing soon, right?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “Dean, I really do need to focus. Can we discuss this later?”

“Over dinner later. I’ll take you out.”

“Okay,” Cas says, eyes drifting from his essay to _Dean_ for a few moments before he catches himself. “Dinner.”

“Hey,” Dean says, after a few minutes have rolled by in which Dr Sexy has been slapped round the face by his patient’s Mom, which probably means they’ll be making out in a lift any minute now. “Know any places to take someone out round here? Got a hot date later.”

“I will lock you out of this room until I have finished editing this, Dean.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll be good,” Dean grins, “Shutting up.”

He’s quiet for a little while as Dr Sexy’s ex-girlfriend gets hit by a ambulance on screen, her fake tv-blood smearing across the pavement at the exact moment Dr Sexy is doing his sexy-eye thing to a third woman that Dean’s got no context for whatsoever. 

“This TV show is terrible,” Cas comments without looking up from his essay, but Dean’s pretty damn sure that it isn’t his political ethics paper that has him smiling at his screen. Dean traces circles on Cas’ leg with his thumb and wracks up the volume. 

Cas rolls his eyes, his smile widening, just a little, and it so, totally worth it.

*

Cas is going to graduate with some kind of fancy ass honours in the summer and is going to do a masters, most likely at Yale, although he's going to be applying at pretty much every college in Sam's list for backup, even though his philosophy professor heavily hinted that he's a shoe in. He was going to live with Meg but he probably won't, now, because six weeks is the longest she's ever pissed off for, and because before she left there was some kind of argument about drugs that Cas refuses to go into. Cas orders a burger with extra bacon at dinner because he's a dude after Dean's heart, and eats it like it's some kind of religious experience. It's the most fun they've actually ever had on a date (a word Dean used once and doesn't regret, that Cas noticeably has not picked up and ran with) because Dean's not actually broke as hell, lying to him or waiting for his life to fall apart. It's good and it's still good when they get back to Cas’ place in the middle of Dean's turn in their unofficial game of twenty questions to find out every single thing about his life. Cas offers him a beer he probably only bought for Dean's benefit, and they're stood in the kitchen smiling at each other as they talk.

Dean’s honestly got no idea where the hell this is going. They haven’t so much as brushed hands since Cas left for classes and Dean picked him up for dinner, but it sure as hell feels like there’s _something_ lurking underneath their conversation and in the too-small amount of space between them in the kitchen.

“Least favourite class?”

“I picked them all because I enjoy them,” Cas says, setting his own beer on the counter next to him.

“Dude, I did some dumbass course in motorbike mechanics because I thought I'd enjoy it, didn't mean it didn't suck.”

“Physics, currently.”

“Because?”

“My Professor is an ass,” Cas says, “ And one of my classmates is very… Persistent. I agreed to her date proposition in the first week of the semester and now she follows me around.”

“She,” Dean says, brain sticking, “Huh. How fucked is it that you’re the most serious relationship of my life and I never even asked if you like women too?”

“This is news to you?”

“I guess,” Dean says, “Maybe not. Dunno. Pretty much try to avoid thinking ‘bout you and other people in my head altogether.” 

“It _has_ been a long time, Dean,” Cas says and, yeah, that’s true. It’s _true_ and in his head he probably wanted Cas happy and settled with someone or other, he just wanted to know fuck all about it. If he was going to pin it down he’d have guessed there would have been someone around, but… Dean’s _here_ and either Cas deserves some kind of academy award, or there’s no one of significance. No one else that Cas would call. “I assume you haven’t been abstinent.”

He, briefly, thinks of the three days he just spent in Lisa the bendy-yoga-teacher’s apartment, and the string of half hearted one night stands he’s had in the past year. Nothing worth noting but, certainly, not abstinent. Nothing he wants to go into with Cas. Especially not _Lisa_ , given the timing. Cas knows he was with someone and that's more than enough. He sure as hell isn't getting into the bendy details of it all.

“You questioning my morals, dude?”

“Your hedonism is a surprisingly endearing quality,”

“That kind of feels like it should be an insult,” 

“It wasn’t intended to be,” Cas says, turning to face him. Dean was hovering close enough that they’re achingly near, now. “It’s a truly remarkable thing, Dean. The world could be turning to dust, but provided your brother is safe and settled, a good burger could make you content.”

“And pie,” Dean adds, which apparently is motivation enough for Cas to lean forward and kiss him again, briefly. It's the first physical contact Dean's gotten in hours and it's ridiculous how much his body curves into it, like he's been touched starved for months rather than since lunch. Fucking _damn_ Cas and the power he has over him, even though he’s not inclined to give a shit right now. Not when Cas stays cosied up against him rather than pulling him away. 

“Your brother, burgers, pie, beer and good sex.” 

“You,” Dean counters, mouth dry. It’s… is reckless. Its _too big_ , but it’s too late to swallow his words now.

Cas stares at him for a few long seconds, before he kisses him again, slowly, thoroughly, until they both have to pull away to breathe.

“I don't understand where this is coming from,” Cas says, voice rough with emotion.

“Cas,” Dean says, helpless, because _he’s got nothing_ , he’s just too damn cheerful right now to put up his filters.“I - me neither.”

Cas makes a noise of frustration at the back of this throat, then drags him in by his shirt into another kiss, the kind that has him scrambling for purchase against the kitchen counter behind Cas, and the kind that has Cas fumbling to pull Dean’s shirt off before Dean’s heads caught up with what's happening. He stills, breaks away to finish pulling the damn thing off, reconnecting their lips as he chucks his shirt toward the table they ate breakfast at.

They make it to the couch, but they don't get there with any kind of finesse left because they're both too goddamn eager to get there hands on one another. Yesterday was slow, deliberate comfort-sex, but now they're grappling with the sudden urgency to be closer, more connected, to get off quicker. Right now they're acting like a couple of teenagers who just want it _done_ , but he's gone for zero to a hundred in three seconds flat because this is _Castiel_. In the end, they get off rutting against each other with Dean’s jeans still dangling round his ankles, and it'd be embarrassing how quick and dirty it was if it were anyone else. 

“ _Damn_ ,” Dean smirks to fill the silence, after, when Cas is half straddling half-sat on his thighs on the sofa, mouth poised into something complicated that Dean probably doesn’t want to get into when he’s still got half his jeans on. “This would be a really bad time for your roommate to show up.”

Cas huffs a laugh, breath hot on Dean’s ear as he sits up to finish pulling Dean’s jeans off his left foot.

“I have seen worse,” Cas declares, serious enough that Dean just _knows_ that there’s a story he wants to hear, hopefully in Cas’ deadpan delivery, his eyes shining the way they do when Cas knows’ he’s being freaking hilarious. He’s cut off asking by his cell phone falling out of his jeans pocket right before he officially loses his jeans, too, clanging to the floor with a noise that sure as hell sounds bad.

Cas freezes with his eyes wide.

“It'll be fine. Probably,” Dean says, as Cas scrambles to pick it up, looking ridiculous in his state of half-undress. 

“It's not smashed,” Cas says, “but it -”

“I turned it off,” Dean says, plucking it out of his hands to boot it up more for Cas’s sake. He knows it's fine. Has been dropped enough times that it’s not an issue, really.

“You turned it off?” Cas says, finally detangling himself to engage in a serious head-tilt soul searching stare. Two more messages from Sam that Dean’s definitely not going to read with Cas looking over shoulder. He can deal with that - with _Sam_ \- later. He checked it for emergencies four times since he turned it off and Sam’s okay. He’s fine. “Are you avoiding your brother?”

“Uh, maybe.” 

“Why?”

“I’m feeling kind of naked over here,” 

“That would be the nudity.”

Dean laughs at that, standing up and making a grab for his shirt, pausing to look at him.

“Do you, uh -bed?”

“Only if that isn’t a euphemism or a delaying tactic from answering my question.”

“You’ll get your answer, Cas, I just find a little weird talking about my brother, butt naked in your front room.”

“You are wearing socks,” Cas says, smirk dancing round the corner of his lips as he leans forward to kiss him, briefly, like it’s goddamn _normal_ for Dean to be in his damn apartment. “I’m going to shower.”

Sam’s texts throughout the day are a three to one Cas-related-nagging to life update ratio, so Dean makes a point of detailing an answer to every single question Sam had about Yale for the length of three messages. He’s not going to send anything else at all, but he winds up caving, picking up his phone again and telling Sam that he’s _fine_ , good even, and that he’s a little more put together than the last time he was dealing with the Cas-issue, anyway, so Sam doesn’t need to worry about it. It’s under control. 

It occurs to him just as Cas shows up fresh from the shower, unashamedly naked, that they haven’t said a single world about Cas’ father all damn day.

“Samgave up his badge for the Cas fan club a little while back,” Dean says, tracking Cas’ movements round his bedroom, a little transfixed because, well, Dean got sucked in well over twenty four hours ago now. He’s freaking doomed. “He, damnit, he made me promise this wasn’t gonna happen.”

“This?”

“ _Us_ ,” Dean says, “Sleeping together. Again.”

“You promised your brother you wouldn’t sleep with me?” Cas asks, looking a little amused as he pulls another pair of those damn sweatpants on. “You didn’t do a very good job,” Cas observes, “I’d say you failed quite thoroughly.” 

“Hey,” Dean counters, “ _You_ kissed me.”

“ _I_ didn’t promise your brother anything,” 

“‘I’m still blaming you,” Dean pouts, lying back on his side of Cas’ bed, resting on his arms, “With your goddamn _voice_ and your hair.”

Cas’ properly smiles this time, then his expression settles. 

“This wasn’t your intention?”

“No,” Dean says, heavily, “Probably should have fucking known.”

“I have always had this voice,” Cas agrees, sitting on his bed, twisting round to look at him. “There was the chance I’d had some kind of haircut.” 

Dean laughs again and it’s way too damn good. It feels too easy. It feels too much like he _fits_ here and Cas is hilarious and good and exactly how he remembers, except no longer a mystery; except he’s, maybe, not going to disappear; except Dean’s not up against a wall trying to guess how the hell he feels. 

“Dean,” Cas says, “I - Sam doesn’t like me.”

“Sam likes you fine,” Dean counters, “He just… I wasn’t in a good place, before. Sam’s just protective.”

“I know, but..." Cas says, lying next to him, now, eyes that exact shade of blue, imploring, close. “Is this a bad idea?”

“Probably,” Dean breathes, chest aching. It’s _longing_ , but it’s unnecessary. It’s bottle-necking in his veins because he wants to be closer, wants Cas, but he’s _right there_ , “But, I feel really good about it right now. I… right this second, I’m really fucking _happy_. Can we just… screw the rest of it right now, Cas, because I… I feel really _good_.”

Cas nods, wordless, but that’s enough. 

*

Dean's first moment of consciousness on Tuesday morning is Cas' morning voice gravelling over a swear word, then there's _light_ and Dean winds up blinking at the ceiling of Cas' bedroom. Cas is scrambling out of bed, dressing at top speed, frantic.

"Class?"

"Yes," Cas says, "I'm _late_." 

"Got it," Dean mutters, closing his eyes rather than watch Cas pull on odd socks.

"Why is it always _physics_?"

"That your only classes in the AM?" Dean suggests, "You - you got classes all day?"

"I have a slot between eleven and two," Cas says, now fully dressed, pocketing his phone and headed for the bathroom. Dean sits up. Takes another moment to stare at the wall before enough of his brain kicks in that he can drag himself out of bed to put the coffee on. He's leaning against the kitchen counter with two cups of coffee before Cas spills out of the bathroom with toothpaste on his shirt. Damn, but Cas is just... cute.

"Coffee," Dean says, handing him the mug.

"I, _thank you_."

"No problem," Dean says, "Any one ever tell you you're kind of a disaster in the morning?"

"Yes," Cas practically growls.

"Meet you at that coffee place at eleven? Reckon I can navigate there."

"I," Cas begins, then opens a kitchen drawer, "Key. Lock up after yourself."

"Got it."

"I need - books. Laptop."

"A new shirt?" Dean says, pointing at the toothpaste stain.

“Damnit,” Cas mutters, headed back into his bedroom. Dean’s palm closes over Cas’ key, thumb running over the rough edge. Sure as hell didn’t take them long to get back to the key-swapping point. It’s dumb as hell how light that makes him feel. 

Cas emerges with a new shirt, a book bag and his laptop, looking somehow more harried than he did two minutes previously.

“Okay, I have everything, I will - coffee, eleven.”

“Wait,” Dean leaning forwards to kiss him in the doorway, before offering him a grin that he’s intending to be sarcastic, or a little mocking, “Knock ‘em dead, Sunshine.” 

Cas gets caught in a pleased mix between a glare and a smile, then he’s gone.

And the damn thing is, he could really get used to it, except logistically there’s no freaking way he could. 

*

He runs into Kelly at the coffee place again, which either means she's broke and works too hard or Dean's unlucky. She stares at him, a lot, as he dawdles at the counter when trying to decide whether Cas would want some kind of pastry given the guy skipped breakfast.

“Help me out here Kelly,” Dean says, a peace offering, “Chocolate? Maple and pecan? For Cas”.

“Are you… Trying to win him over?”

Dean has absolutely no fucking clue what he’s trying to do _at all_ , and he’s pretty sure he’s not going to be able to work it out till he’s at least a hundred miles away. Being here screws all his damn priorities and messes with his head. He needs _space_ before he can answer any one of the questions he’s pretty sure Cas has.

“It's been two years, my pastry knowledge is a little out of date.”

“Chocolate for Castiel, but the maple and pecan is better. He likes the table over in the corner. I can bring it over.”

“Thanks,” Dean says, “I'll take a maple for me too.”

“You around for a while?”

“Uh, few days,” Dean says, as Kelly rings his order through the till probably slower than necessary. “Road trip.”

“I heard,” Kelly says, smirking at the damn cash register.

“Right,” Dean mutters, “Of course you did.”

“And you live in Kansas?”

“Yep,” Dean says, then breathes a sigh of something like relief when Cas appears behind him.

“You two are talking,” Cas frowns, looking between them suspiciously. Cas is comfortable here. Maybe that’s part the difference. These are Cas’ people, his coffee shop, his apartment. He’s not running because _this_ is where he runs to. Dean’s the one being invited to invade.

“Dean’s just buying you breakfast,” Kelly says, finally putting it through the till and allowing him to pass the cash over before Cas can object.

“You skipped it,” Dean puts in before Cas can formulate his confused expression into an actual question.

“I...yes, that happened.”

“He gets a little grouchy after physics,” Kelly subs in, gaze flicking between them, smiling. He can do friends. He hasn’t a whole lot of opportunity to, but he’s pretty sure it falls within his remit. He’s pretty good at winning people over, albeit temporarily. It’s when they know the full Winchester stack of issues that he starts to wear thin.

“Huh. I think I can handle it.”

“I am _here_ ”. Cas grouses.

“Go, sit,” Kelly says 

“Kelly-”

“ - I was nice, Castiel, I even gave him the mates discount.”

“That was discounted? Damn,” Dean mutters, as Cas steers him to his usual table.“They really know how to ring the dollars out of you in New Haven. Welcome to studentville.”

“You bought me breakfast,” Cas says, once they’re sat down and there’s _something_ going on there. 

“Yep,” Dean says, taking his seat and looking at him, “How was your physics class?”

“Frustrating and long,” Cas says frown creasing his forehead. “This module appears to involved a great deal of referencing my father's papers, it's very _sucky_ and the Professor dislikes my attitude. _Was_ Kelly nice to you?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Were you not expecting her to be?”

“No, I just,” Cas begins, “I'm unsure how much information Meg passed on to her about that summer. I didn't especially feel like discussing it when I was back at Yale.”

“We really messed this thing up,” Dean says, watching as Kelly makes their coffees behind the counter. “Can’t even get a coffee without stumbling into someone who has opinions about us. Says a lot.”

“Dean,”

“I mean, you’re lying to Hester, I’m ignoring Sam. Kelly apparently thinks I’m an asshole who broke your heart. This is just _awesome_.”

“What do you mean by ‘thing’?” Cas asks, tension leaking into his voice, an undercurrent of heat. “When you say we messed this thing up, what are you referring to?”

“Who the fuck knows?”

“I want _you_ to know,” Cas says, “You, what do you want, Dean? Why are you here?”

“You _called me_.”

“That’s not a sufficient answer,” Cas says, leaning further across the table, gaze electric, “ _Dean_ , what are we doing?”

“Why am I the one delivering all the answers?”

“You’re the one who decides things. You… you decided when we were dating and when we were breaking up. Determining the course of our relationship is _your_ domain.”

“No _way_ , Cas. We are not doing that again. I am not feeling like I broke you all over again.”

“You _did_ break me,” Cas hisses back.

“Oh, screw you, Cas, you -”

“ - I didn’t say I didn’t break you, too,” Cas says, “If you would let me apologise -”

“ I _said_ I don’t wanna talk about that. Damnit, Cas. I’m not here to drag out ancient history with you.”

“I _am_ your ancient history, Dean. That is what I am.”

“How the fuck did we end up arguing?” Dean asks, voice picking up volume, “We were _fine_ two goddamn minutes ago.”

“Dean,” Cas says, then cuts himself off because Kelly is suddenly approaching with their coffees. Dean swallows and shifts away, slightly, because it’s always as awkward as fuck stepping into other people’s domestics. Cas waits until she’s left before he continues, voice rearranged into resigned irritation. “You’re upset with me. I understand that. I… I am _willing_ to wait until you are able to discuss that with me, but I need to know whether or not you are going to call me after you leave.” 

“That’s your question,” Dean says, words catching on the back of his throat as he looks at him.

“I want you stay regardless,” Cas says, gaze sharp, pointed, “But I need to know the truth.”

Dean swallows and doesn’t look away. It’s a fair question. It’s a _good_ question and one that he doesn’t really have a good answer for, because every single option freaking sucks. He shouldn’t have come here. He should have never picked up Cas’ goddamn call. He should’ve stayed in freaking Indiana with Lisa, because this… this is complicated, too much, and it’s gonna hurt. In the long run, this is going to hurt like hell.

“Yeah,” Dean says, chest pounding, “Yeah, I’m gonna call you, Cas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloo! There was things that wasn't angst in that chapter. See, look, I can write non-angst. yep. Thanks so much for all your lovely words of encouragement on this, all. I'm a little behind on answering them because I keep wanting to keep writing so much because the ol' writing bug has infected me big time, here.
> 
> Moreeee soon.


	5. Chapter 5

They're a couple of minutes away from being mid-act, so it's a little late for Dean's head to be muscling in with logic, but Dean's felt a little uneasy all day and especially since the coffee shop and his promise that he'll call him. He just doesn't know what any of this means, or what he wants it to mean, or what Cas wants and the easy, light feeling he'd been carrying around with him has been shot to hell. It's not like he didn't know it was complicated yesterday, it's just that it didn't feel complicated when he was close enough to Cas to smell his goddamn honey shampoo, with the guy spilling out his soul, listening to him and still there when Dean woke up. Now Dean's fucked it up by promising to _call_ because that means this means something.

“Maybe we should, uh,” Dean mutters, pulling away a little. Both of Cas palms are resting on his lower back under his shirt and Dean feels a little like crawling out of his own skin, because he’s restless and het up; equal parts unnerved and turned on. “Maybe we should cool it.”

“Cool it?” Cas quotes back at him, eyebrows raised, which is a fair freaking response, given Dean's the one that has Cas pinned to his bed with his thighs. He’s the _instigator_ here. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, except his voice doesn't sound convincing at all, and he hasn't exactly made a move to not be pinning Cas to his goddamn bed. “Cas, we have a problem. We keep doing this.”

“Sex.”

“Yeah, Cas, sex.” Dean says, resisting an eye roll, “We keep falling into goddamn bed with each other -”

“-or falling into sofa,”

“Right,” Dean scoffs, “ _Whatever_ , I just mean - every damn time we make things worse and more freaking complicated and - and maybe, maybe, we should cool it.”

“What do you suggest we should do?” Cas asks, one of his hands running over the plane of Dean’s back and settling on his hip.

“Talk,”

“You don't want to talk me,” Cas says, “Every time I attempt to talk to you you close yourself off,”

It is not like the guys is _wrong_. Dean doesn’t want to talk. There’s way too fucking much to say and if he doesn’t take the time to work it all out first he’s gonna wind up saying the wrong thing or focusing on the wrong thing. He needs to work out what in the myriad of crap they have going on he wants to talk about before they actually _talk_.

Anything he said right now, when his head’s a mess and this quasi-grief is settling in his chest, isn’t going to help.

“I, okay. Fine. I don't wanna talk.”

“And you're going to call me.”

“Yeah,”

“So,” Cas says, “We will talk later, when you are in Kansas and the opportunity to fall onto any furniture is… Limited. And now we can _not_ talk.”

“Okay,” Dean says, eyes fixed on Cas’ collarbone, then his mouth. “That doesn't mean _this_ is a good idea.”

“We're several orgasms passed this conversation,” Cas says, “Dean, you're leaving in a few days and regardless of the outcome of our conversation it's doubtful we'll be face to face for a long time. We're _good_ at this. You want this.” 

All the air in Dean's lungs rushed out. 

“Nevertheless, If you really are committed to cooling it, I'd suggest moving off me.”

Dean shuts his eyes.

Damnit.

“Dean,” Cas says, voice wrecked, “If you're unsure, then obviously I am out -”

“ - I'm not,” Dean says, “You, obviously I want you. Obviously, I just, thinkin’ too much.”

“I need a solid _yes_ from mind and body, or we can watch a movie.”

“A freaking movie?” Dean asks, warm almost-laughter stirring in his gut. “Cas. You're something special, Cas. Castiel.”

“It's strange to hear you call me that.”

“Castiel,” Dean mutters again, leaning to mutter the word into Cas’s earlobe, then his neck, then his collarbone.

“Dean,” Cas exhales, “What are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking that you were right when you said we were good at this. That _this_ part of our, our, whatever has gotten better with time.”

“Practice,” Cas says, very solemn. “Makes perfect.”

And they're screwed already, so why the hell shouldn't he commit to it.

*

Sam texts him a little after one AM to ask if he’s awake. He sends back a _yes_ and the next thing he knows his little brother is calling him. It's late, so he should really been telling Sam to go the hell to bed, but it's probably been the longest he's not talked to his little brother since their last shitty argument about Ruby and, damnit, but he misses him.

He grabs the nearest clothes off the floor (his shirt, Cas’ sweatpants, as it turns out) and flicks on the light in Cas’ kitchen before answering, taking a seat on his couch and staring up at the ceiling.

“Hey Sammy,” Dean says, quiet.

“Hey,” Sam breathes back, “Dean.”

“That's me,” Dean says, “Its late, Sam.”

“Couldn't sleep,”

“I know that feeling,” Dean says, “How’s, uh, how's school?”

“Dean, I didn't mean to make you feel unwanted. That's not, I didn't mean that.”

God fucking _damn_ it.

“Sam,”

“Dean,” Sam counters, “You - I shouldn't have made you go on the stupid road trip if you didn't want to.”

“Yeah you should have,” Dean returns, eyes slammed shut, trying to regulate the mass of feeling that’s congregating in his chest. Listening to _Sam_ , who’s no doubt sat in bed with his light on, wide awake, doesn’t make working out what he should be doing any easier, “I needed to get the hell out of Lawrence. Have some space.”

“Are you still in New Haven?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “But that's not what I mean. It's not like you're wrong, Sam. I need a _life_. I gotta - I gotta do something.”

“And Cas-” 

“Cas is okay. He's fine. Asleep, probably.”

“Do you know what you're doing?” Sam asks, which is a more respectful way of Sam pointing out that he makes terrible judgement calls when it comes to Cas, with the same effect. They both know Dean hasn’t got a fucking clue. They both knew he was going to get sucked in when he answer the first damn call.

“Sam,” Dean says, through a half smile, “When in my whole life have I known what I'm doing?”

“Dean -”

“Look, not all that sure me being here is helping with the dad stuff. I'll talk to him about it tomorrow, then maybe head off. Start working my way back to you.”

“You still have some time before you're back at work, maybe you should…”

“I'll take the damn scenic route if it'll make you happy,” Dean interjects, more tension that he realised he was still carrying in his shoulders slipping into his voice. Right now, he just feels resigned to all of it. He feels _tired_ , but the uneasy kind of tired that means he’ll never be able to sleep.

“It's not about what makes me happy.”

“That's the problem, Sam, because it is exactly about that.” 

“Dean, are you- are you okay?”

“I'm always okay.”

“No, you're not,” Sam says, all verbal puppy eyes and emotional, “You're not, Dean.”

“I'm okay enough.” 

“Dad - he wasn't right about you having to look after me. That's, that's all I've been trying to say. I, I just want you to be happy, Dean, and you… You've given up so much for me.”

“It's late, Sam. Do we have to get into this right now?”

“I just, I worry about you. About you and Cas and what you're going to do...”

“Sam, I will be okay after you leave for college because I'm gonna have to be okay. That's how it works. Life happens to me and then I freaking deal with,” Dean sighs, resting his head on the wall behind Cas’ sofa, the solidity of it grounding him a little. “What is this really about? What happened at school?”

Sam is quiet for a few long moments, during which Dean considers that this must be what it feels like to be torn clean in two. He… he should be in Lawrence, pushing Sam on this face to face, not in fucking _Connecticut_. And then there’s Cas. 

“We had an admissions guy come in from KU and he was talking about back up schools and the number of ivy league applications they get and -”

“ - Aw, come on, Sam. You've got your internship and your GPA and so many damn extra circulars I can't keep track of them. Yeah, they get a lot of applications, but you're _the best_ and they're gonna see that.”

“Everyone has the GPA and the extra circulars, Dean, and -”

“Then you sell your story, hard.”

“And the money -”

“ - I will deal with the money if it's an issue. You are going to whatever college you want if it kills me.” 

“I,” Sam begins, “I think you're right about me working.”

Goddamnit, but he has been waiting for Sam to say that for a long time. It doesn’t feel nearly enough like a victory as he thought it would. It weighs him on him like a failure, instead, because… Sam shouldn’t be awake in the middle of the night worrying about this stuff in the first place. Dean should have pushed hard. Won the argument earlier. Set up things in such a way that Sam would have known he didn’t have to _work_.

“You bet your ass I'm right.”

“Maybe, I could drop my hours.”

“Sam, if you need money for shit, I can give you a damn allowance or something.” 

“I don't want you to do that.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says, “That's all that's up? You worrying about college?”

“I, it's just quiet here.” 

Sam shouldn’t be alone in Lawrence. He shouldn’t. He’s a _kid_. He shouldn’t be alone, period, and he shouldn’t feel like he’s got to handle things on his own. Maybe this dumb road trip has the chance to be good for Dean, long term, but it doesn’t mean he should have gone.

“Hey, I'll be back playing my music too damn loud and making a mess soon.”

“I know,” Sam says, “Living alone is… Its weird.”

“Yep,” Dean says, “Look I'm gonna get Bobby to come check in on you tomorrow. And Sonny's short of volunteers, so go there after school one day and you know he'll invite you to stay for dinner. And hey, pretty sure you should have some girl you're inviting over to fool around while your folks are out of town.”

“Dean, I told you -” 

“ - Right, no distractions in your final year of high school. Got it. I can't believe you bought that crap from Sarah, but okay.”

“Dean.”

“You're too damn responsible for your own good,” Dean says, “Now get some rest.”

“Okay. You too.” Sam says, “I'll call you tomorrow.”

_Tomorrow_.

“Good,” Dean says, hanging up and rubbing the back of his neck. He feels mellow. Strung out by the exhaustion of feeling so damn much. Lost.

“Dean,” Cas says, hovering in the doorway, shirtless and just as maudlin. Expression unreadable. He looks like he might have been there a while, but Dean’s got no idea what he’d have heard. Hasn’t got the brainpower available to be irritated about him listening in. “Your brother?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “You - you couldn't sleep either? Hope I didn't wake you up.”

“I wasn't asleep.”

“What's up?” Dean asks, dropping his phone, as Cas takes a seat on the edge of the sofa, ensuring physical distance that Dean’s not sure he needs right now.

“I don't know what to do,” Cas says, voice balancing on a knife edge and, yeah, Cas _needs him_ right now. 

“We talking about your Dad?” Dean asks. Cas looks smaller when he's crippled by indecision. He looks younger whenever he’s trying to work out how he feels about anything, like he should have done when he was eighteen and his father walking out was fresh. Instead, he buried it, selected the emotions he felt he should feel and decided to save Dean instead. It’s funny how that desire is probably what sunk them both, in the end.

“Yes.”

“You, uh, wanna talk about it?”

“No,” Cas says, pained, “but I - I need to decide.”

Dean breathes our and nods at the space next to him on the sofa because, damnit, looking at Cas all tense and folding in on himself makes his stomach hurt. If they're gonna sit here and dig out painful, shitty feelings, they might as well do it with Cas tucked under his arm. Cas falls into the touch like he was waiting for a queue the whole time, resting his head against Dean's shoulder, face half buried in his chest.

Dean doesn’t remember it being like this when they were teenagers. Maybe it was, but that’s not how he remembered it. He remembers Cas comforting _him_. He remembers them sitting side-to-side on Cas’ bed, trying to focus on freaking school work while being very aware of how close the guy was. He doesn’t remember it making everything feel still. 

“I want - I want answers. I want to know... why now?”

“Is that all you want?”

“Yes,” Cas says, voice full of the kind of emotional heat that's had a chance to cool and temper. “Because,” Dean says, looking up at the ceiling, “You remember my eighteenth birthday - when my Dad called me.”

“Vividly,” Cas says, his voice almost soft in the gloom of Cas’ apartment. 

“Right,” Dean says, his voice a humourless breath of air in Cas’ front room. The only light on in the place is in Cas’ kitchen and the street lights outside. It all feels _more_ than any of it had in the middle day. In the light. “Not saying I blame Sam for taking the phone, but… Dad was never gonna give us answers in that phone call. He couldn’t do it. He wasn’t ready. And I guess… sometimes people can’t give you what you need, yet. Sometimes they’re not there. Sometimes they just don’t have answers to give. They can’t _go_ there, but they still wanna… start somewhere, I guess. Your Dad…. He wouldn’t have contacted Hester if he didn’t want to talk to you, but that doesn’t mean he’s at a place where he can give you answers. Does he owe you some goddamn answers? Yeah. Do you owe him the time of day just ‘cause he spawned you? No fucking way. So, if answers are what you want, then call him, or you arrange to meet, and you ask him, but you gotta prepare yourself for the fact that he might not be able to give ‘em, and that might be all you get. He might… you might not get another chance to talk. That won’t be your fault - that’s still on him - but if you… if you want to see if he can make up _some_ of the damage he caused up to you… if you want to see if you could forgive him, or just for him to know who you are as a person, or even just to say _fuck you, Dad_ because I’m kicking ass at Yale… you might have to give him some time. So I guess, I guess you just need to be sure about what you want and what you’re prepared to give because….” Dean sighs, running his fingers through Cas' hair, “You deserve more than walking away from this whole thing with regret, Cas. You just do. And sometimes that means shelving the difficult questions for a little time. And if the person is worth it, you have to wait. Not indefinitely, but some.”

“That was very wise,” Cas says, quiet, deep. 

“I’m freaking yoda,” Dean says, through a yawn, pulling Castiel closer under his arm. 

“Is that what you felt when your father died. Regret?”

“I,” Dean begins, his chest stretching too thin again, with Sam's small voice in the back of his head as he says that it’s quiet without him there, and then there’s the fact that looking after Cas is instinctual. He can’t help it. The guy inspires him to be more freaking tactile than he’s ever been in his life. Every time Cas looks like a lost puppy his whole being aches to give him a hug. 

And then there’s _Sam_ ; scared about college, so wrapped up in the future that he forgets what’s going on around him. “The whole thing was fucked. He… the guy who hit him did it on purpose. There’s CCTV footage of him speeding up, tee totalling his car.”

“Why?” Cas asks, wide and open. 

“Huh,” Dean says, “I guess I gave you the abridged Winchester history before, too. The fire that killed my Mom, it… Dad was pretty sure it wasn’t an accident. It started in Sam’s nursery and they never had a good explanation for that. It was marked down as ‘unknown cause’ and, uh, Dad used to be a little obsessive about it. That’s why we moved a lot. Dad chasing ghosts. Pissing off the authorities by showing up some place after similar fires and telling them it was all connected with a couple of kids in the backseat. He, uh, kept newspaper clippings. Used to tell me and Sam he was gonna solve it.” 

“You never mentioned this,” Cas asks, close, warm, one of the only people Dean’s met who cares about him more the more he shares.

“It’s not my favourite topic of conversation,” Dean says, “I remember the fire. The heat. I… I carried Sam out and then Mom and Dad didn’t _follow_. They dragged him out. He was unconscious cause of the smoke, so I just stood there, alone, watching our home burn to the ground with my mother in. The fact that Dad spent the next decade forcing me to relive it wasn’t a fucking treat for me, but it… he’d stop talking about it by the time we settled in Lawrence. I figured he’d gotten over it, but right before he died it turns out he finally got a police officer in Cosby, Missouri, to take him seriously. To investigate. That’s why he left.”

“And?”

“And we was probably right, because he got mowed down two days later,” Dean sighs, windpipe tight, “The police officer guy tried to sell me some story like he’d been keeping his distance to keep us safe, but they never … Never got anywhere with it. The car was stolen, no prints, no image of the guy in the car. They gave it up as a bad job.He was less than a hundred miles away from us when he died.”

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

“It's like you said - a tragedy of a guy trying to do something that could never be done. To get back in that fire and pull her out, even if it meant losing the rest of his family. Mom - she was gone. That wasn't gonna change. And the thing is, his _answers_ wouldn’t have changed anything. Even if someone did on purpose and got locked up, there's no justice to be had in a six month year old baby losing his Mom. Nothing could change that.”

“Did they ask you about it?” Cas asks, “The police?”

“Yeah” Dean says, “I just didn’t _know_ anything. He took his damn newspaper clippings when he left. We lost the rest of Dad’s stuff when we were evicted. He hadn’t talked to us for years.”

“Do you want to know what happened?”

“No,” Dean says, jaw slightly clenched, “I got the answers I needed. Dad loved us. He was a crappy father; obsessive, absent and unreliable and he fucked me up all right, but in his head he was doing right by us, somehow, and by Mom. I can live with that. And I'm not - I don't regret Sam taking that call. At that point, Dad couldn't’ve given us a damn thing we needed.”

“Dean,” Cas says, “In an argument we had when we teenagers, I told you to grow up. That was hypocritical and unnecessary and I'm sorry.”

Dean cracks a smile that blossoms up out of nowhere.

“I don't even remember you saying that,” Dean says, resting his chin top of Cas’ head, breathing him in. Cas stays tucked under his arm, body curves into his personal space, quiet for maybe another half an hour. The time bleeds together. He's so damn comfortable and Cas is just - addictive. Vulnerable. Close. The only person Dean’s talked to about any of this for a long time.

“I think I need to try and sleep,” Cas says, untangling himself, “I have early classes on Wednesday. Are you coming?”

“Uh, no,” Dean says, “In a bit. I'm… I'm gonna read.”

“Okay,” Cas says, frowning, “Good night,”

He's not sure he could sleep if he tried, and trying suddenly feels like a failure. He needs to think. Needs to deal with some of the stuff in his head. Needs to stop being hollowed out by all of it.

He gets himself a coffee instead, pulling on the sweatshirt he left in here yesterday and picking one of Cas’ books at random. He sits, silently, with his book and his shoulders hunched over himself until morning.

It doesn’t help.

*

Cas spills into the front room around eight the next morning, a few hours after Dean’s stopped drinking coffee because not sleeping _at all_ is probably a shitty idea. The tiredness has seeped further into his bones, but not nearly enough that he could actually sleep.

“You’re still -” Cas says, stopping suddenly in the doorway. 

“Here?” Dean subs in, “I told you I wasn’t going to leave without telling you.” 

“ _Awake_ ,” Cas corrects, “I assumed you’d taken Meg’s room.”

“Oh,” Dean says, swallowing, “No, I uh, just wasn’t… wouldn’t've been able to sleep. You headed to class?”

“Soon, yes,” Cas says, “You should get some sleep, Dean.”

“Maybe,” Dean says, watching as Cas heads for the coffee, mouth poised into something. His voice is soft. Something close to tender and that - that doesn’t help. Doesn’t help the mess in his head. Cas is a lot. Dean’s in love with him. That’s the upshot of his staring at the wall all fucking night. Nothing has changed. He’s in love with him and he _still_ lives over a thousand goddamn miles away and he can’t change any of it. “How’s your class schedule looking today?”

“Busy,” Cas says, “Coffee?”

“No,” Dean says, “I should - I guess I should try and sleep after you’ve headed out. When are you back from school?”

“That depends,” 

“On?”

“My friends and I meet for dinner every Wednesday,” 

“Okay,” Dean says, “You going?”

“That depends on whether you want to come.” 

“For _dinner_ ,” Dean says, watching as Cas pause to look at him, anxiousness carved into his expression, very still. “With your friends?”

“Yes,” Cas says. 

“You,” Dean begins, “You want that? Me to meet your friends.”

“Yes,”

“I don't know, Cas,” Dean sighs, chest folding in on itself as Cas wonders round his apartment, half dressed and disheveled and so goddamn lovely that Dean doesn't know what to with it. Damn him. “I'm not sure if it's such a good idea. You should go. Go on your own. I’ll sleep, or whatever.”

“You already met Kelly.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “But she served us coffee. I didn't crash your thing, I just - meeting your friends, it's not… Not a good plan.”

“Why?” 

“Because,” Dean says and _fuck_ does he hate himself right now, for the first time in a long time, “Because I'm not your goddamn boyfriend, Cas.”

“I am not asking you to be my boyfriend,” Cas says, voice achingly deliberate. 

“There are implications to that kind of crap. I show up and meet your friends they're gonna think this means something, and I don't know that I can commit to that.”

“This does mean _something_.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Yeah it _means_ something, it's just I'm not sure what the hell it does mean right now and I need, I need time to work that out, so until then I think it's a bad freaking idea to act like we're dating.”

“Dean,” Cas says, mouth poised into a frown, “What do you think we have been doing?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Yeah, okay. But that's why I said we should cool it-”

“But we did not ‘cool it’.”

“Okay,” Dean says, “So we have a fucking problem where we can't quit jumping each other's bones, that's not news, Cas.”

“You weren't talking like this yesterday,” Castiel says, voice icing over, “Is my asking for a _slither_ of commitment from you really enough to have you not sleeping and refusing to tell me what's on your mind? I asked if you had an intention of calling me, Dean, not for a marriage proposal.”

Dean stands up. Antsy. Restless. Pissed off with no where to put, and he misses _Sam_ , misses having some kind of purpose. All of this, _everything_ lately has been a massive mind-fuck. 

“I wasn't _thinking_ about any of this shit before then.”

“You should get some sleep. Meg’s room is made up if you insist on being insolent.”

“Fuck you,” Dean says, “What time is this thing with your friends?”

“We meet for coffee at six, then go to a restaurant. There’s no _obligation_ attached, Dean. You asked about my friends. They have all been… talking.”

“I'll,” Dean sighs, “I'll think about it.”

“Okay,” Cas says, sitting down next to him with his coffee and settling there until he ne has to go.

Dean winds up getting up and going to bed a little after Cas leaves. 

He steals the pillow Cas used last night and pulls the sheet around him, sweatshirt still on. He gets a text from Lisa. He left a shirt at her place, apparently. He types out some dumb message about maybe collecting it on his way back to Lawrence, but he knows he won't. Cocooned in Cas sheets with his head messed up, he knows goddamn well he's never going to see Lisa again. He's done. Screwed. He’s _in love with him_ and that is not what he needed to happen right now. It is really, really not the complication his life was waiting for.

Cas texts him the details of the restaurant and the time they're having a pre-dinner coffee stroke study date, and Dean's got no freaking idea what he's going to do.

He looks a little more at the picture on Cas’ wall of his friends: Kelly, Hannah, Mick, the others Dean can't remember the names of. In the end, he figures that whatever interrogation they subject Cas to will be a little less if he's actually there. The last damn thing he needs is both of them having a relationship inspired freak out.

It’s _worth_ showing up for the look he gets when Cas looks up and sees him there, eyes lighting up.

Cas’ friends are great. Even Mick doesn’t make him want to punch him in the face too much (although the thought of them sleeping together makes him feel sick). They do not make him feel any less alone.

*

“Did you have a good evening?” Cas asks, voice all gravel-warmth and _gorgeous_ and Dean’s a total fucking sucker, and he doesn’t even feel ashamed about it right now. Cas is more _Cas_ with his friends. Less uncomfortable. He makes jokes and they bounce off each other and it’s just really fucking clear that Cas is supposed to be here, in New Haven. He is doing well. That wasn’t some line Cas sold him so he wouldn’t worry. The father thing aside, he’s doing great; kicking ass in college, friends who aren’t afraid to give him a hard time about crap because they care, letters from Anna and weekly conversations with Hester.

“Yeah, Dean says, “Hannah is…”

“Intense,” Castiel supplies, “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you call any of them, Cas?” Dean asks, quiet, “They’d have gotten to your drunk ass quicker than I would’ve done. I get that we have the shitty-fathers thing in common, but it’s…”

“Do you wish I hadn’t called you?”

“That’s not the point,” Dean says, jaw clenched.

“Dean.”

“I’m _glad_ you called, but that’s because I’m a selfish jackass. You should have called Kelly. Or _Hannah_. Hell, even freaking _Mick_. Gabriel would have been on the next flight out here. Hester. Why me?” 

“I was very drunk,”

“That’s not a goddamn explanation,” Dean says, frustration rolling off him in Cas’ front room, which he spent a better part of the day trying to tidy up because of their weird, fake domesticity that they’ve both been pretending isn’t the worst idea they’ve ever had. “Cas.” 

“I don’t know,” Cas says, gaze intense enough that Dean probably believes him. 

“You don’t know?”

“I _don’t_ ,” Cas says, “I was - I had been thinking about you. Before.”

Dean’s heart rate picks up without his permission.

“Thinking about… what does that mean?”

“Dean,” Cas says, with intent, “I _don’t know_.”

“It’s been two fucking years, Cas, what were you _thinking_ about?” 

“Do you trust me?” Cas asks, totally out of the blue, voice piercing enough that it shocks him into silence for a few heavy moments, because it suddenly feels like it’s two years ago and Gabriel is casually delivering the news that Cas took a last minute jaunt to fucking england; Dean goddamn begging him to not bail on him again after that night after Charlie’s party; how much he’d wanted to put his fist through the wall when he woke up and found that key.

“No,” Dean says, looking away, but he's not gonna lie about it. Not to Cas. He doesn’t _trust_ him. Not for a hot minute. He feels a lot of things for Cas, but trust is just… that got knocked out of the equation a few disappearing acts ago.

“Dean,”

“No,” Dean says, words picking up a little more momentum, “Why would I trust you, Cas? What part of any of this is supposed to come out with me _trusting_ you?”

“You won't let me apologise for the way I left,” Cas says, expression drawn into misery, but it’s just… he always feels bad about it. Then he does it all over again. Cas being _sorry_ doesn’t mean a whole lot. 

“I already heard your damn apology the first time. You were _upset_. You didn't know what to do. You weren't handling things well. Fine. Okay. I’m not gonna pretend I know what the hell was going on in your head, what you were going through, but I still don't _trust_ you.”

“Dean, I'm sorry.”

There’s anguish written all over his features, but that’s not good enough, which is why he didn’t want to get into any of this in this first place. It’s not _enough_ because Dean is so freaking sure that Cas would do exactly the same thing if they wound up in that place again. If they were in Dean’s territory - in Kansas - Cas would have bailed already. He’d have ran back to here with his people and they’d talk it all out over dinner. The _only_ reason they’ve managed this long of feigning some kind of functional relationship, is that Cas doesn’t have anywhere to run to and he can’t, he can’t _change_ that, because that’s Castiel. Dean’s a goddamn commitment phobe with a bucket load of daddy issues, a give-em-hell-attitude and a car; Cas takes off. 

And then he’s angry. 

“Damnit, Cas, there's a difference between apologising and dealing with the consequences of your actions. Now I’m fucking sorry if that’s not what you want to hear, but by the fourth time you stick your hand in a freaking open flame, you expect the damn thing to hurt you.”

“Dean.” 

“What the hell did you expect to happen? My dad walked out on me, Cas, you of all people know how it feels to be _left_. For someone to just take off and leave you to deal. You _know_ how that feels. You know how _I_ felt, so why did you -?”

“ - I didn't expect you to come here when I called, but you _did_ , Dean, so let me -”

“Let you what? Tell me that you were _upset_ because, here’s a suggestion, sometimes when people are upset they talk about it, not leave the goddamn continent.” 

“I am _talking to you_ now,” Cas says, voice deliberate and carrying the usual gravity that every damn thing Cas has ever said does and, the thing is, he’s right. Cas has been talking to him. He talked to him about his father. About his friends. About how he’s been feeling. Cas _talked_ and Dean’s the one who’s clammed up and is refusing to address all their issues. Right now, this bottlenecking of issues is _Dean_.

Neither of them notice Meg letting herself in. They’re still staring at each other, stood a little close together, with the tension palpable when she takes advantage of Dean’s temporary speechlessness to make her presence known.

“Hey Clarence,” She says, hand on her hip, bitter smile in place, every inch the person Dean saw in the pictures. “Either you invented a time machine while I was gone, or you really need me around as much as you said in your voicemails.”

“Meg,” Cas says, voice full of _something_ that makes Dean hurt. Relief, maybe, but the complicated kind you don’t want to feel. “You’re here.”

“In the flesh,” She smiles, ice cold, and then Cas has crossed the room to pull her into a hug. She’s skinnier than her pictures, with more of a presence. Cas hasn’t said a whole lot about her, except that she’s not _nice_ and that she leaves. Kelly mentioned something offhand about her being prickly over dinner, but all her harsh edges seem to melt away a little as she sinks into Cas’ hug. 

“You’re okay,” Cas says, serious and almost-intimate and, _damn_ , does Cas care about this girl who takes off with no warning. 

“I told you I was okay in my texts, Clarence.”

“Our definitions of ‘okay’ are not always the same,” Cas says, half stern, “Meg, you -”

“ - aren’t you going to introduce me to _the_ Dean Winchester?” Meg says, turning her gaze on him and assessing him.

“This is Dean,” Cas says, looking at him for the first time since Meg spoke, “He -”

“ - you called him second, right?” Meg asks, smirking, and Dean’s pretty sure that he hates her, a lot. “Oh, Clarence, you’re getting predictable.” 

“And you were _where_ , exactly, when he called you first?” Dean butts in, watching as she picks up her bag and drags it into the room, dumping it next to the sofa before sitting out and propping her feet up on the coffee table. She’s entitled and _rude_ and Cas deserves someone a hell of a lot better for a best friend, but that’s probably not up to him.

“Dean,” Cas says, “You don’t have to -”

“- no, the ken doll has a point,” Meg says, eyes fixed on Dean for a long few moments before sliding back to Cas, “I didn’t pick up your message until last night. I got here as fast as I could. So, Daddy Dearest, huh?”

“Where have you been?”

“Anyone ever told you about foreplay, Clarence?” Meg cuts back, “Buy me a drink first.” 

“We’re out,” Dean says, grabbing his jacket off the back of one of Cas’ chairs, “I’ll, uh, beer run.” 

“Dean,” Cas says, gaze flicking back to him, burrowing under his skin.

“How many times have I gotta tell you I’m telling you before I leave?” Dean says, “You just - you two need to talk. I’ll get us some beer.” 

“And cigarettes,” Meg says, without looking at him. “Menthol.” 

“Sure, whatever,” Dean mutters, “Cas, we can pick this up later, okay? It’s fine. We’re fine.”

“Okay, Dean,” Cas says, settling back in his space and watching him dig around his pocket for his car keys and his cell phone.

“And Dean,” Meg puts in, “I like my liquor hard.” 

Cas kisses him before he leaves. Hand resting against the rough of his cheek and settling there for a few long moments.

He calls Sam from the parking lot at the liquor store and tells his brother that he’s taken a day trip to Martha’s Vineyard and is staying near the coast, alone. Sam knows it’s a bullshit (and asks him a lot of pointed questions about the history and geography that Dean wouldn’t know about even if he had been), so it doesn’t really count as lying. He picks up the beer, some bourbon and cigarettes for Meg and dawdles another twenty minutes before headed back, to give them an opportunity to clear a little of the air. 

When he gets back, Cas kisses him in the corridor before the main room and tries to pay him for the cigarettes because it’s apparently a dead cert that Meg won’t, then talks him into watching a damn movie together. 

Dinner with Cas’ other friends was kind of weird, but at least they were all well adjusted and not in the middle of some complicated drama.The movie is a lot worse. Meg interjects loud derisive comments through most of the movie, most of which probably would be funny if Dean hadn’t already committed to hating her, and Cas is a weird mix of tense and happy as curls up against Dean’s side for the whole damn thing. He’s quiet for most of it, before he falls into the swing of interjecting his own cutting analysis and jokes half an hour before the end. Meg thinks he’s about as hilarious as Dean does and, even if he hates her, it’s damn clear she cares a lot about Cas. She drinks a third of the bottle of bourbon straight from the bottle, before passing it for Cas to take a swig, who uses it as an opportunity to move the alcohol out of her reach on automatic. She doesn’t bother arguing about it, looks to have expected him too even, but does ask a pointed question about why her bed is made up with Cas’ sheets, clearly not slept in.

It is, without a doubt, one of the weirdest evenings of his life. 

*

“Cas,” Dean begins, early the next morning, when they’ve both been awake for a little while and not speaking. Cas turns to look at him as they both sit up, pulling the covers with them. 

“You need to leave,” Cas suggests, head against the back of the headboard as he looks at him.

“Yeah, I was thinking first thing Friday morning. I, Meg’s here now and... Sam.”

“Your brother needs you,” Cas says. 

“Sam's always gonna need me, but it's.. It's not just that. I think I need to leave. To think,” Dean says, watching him. Cas is soft in the mornings. He feels so goddamn _real_ and close and, fuck, does Dean want keep this. He wants to have a chance to understand whatever the hell is going on with his friendship with Meg. He wants the chance to talk Cas into letting his peach fuzz grow out. “And it turns out I can't think straight around you.” 

“If it helps,” Cas says, meeting his gaze with a half smile that's fucking glorious, “The feeling is mutual.” 

“Honestly, I think that's what fucked us in the first place. I've…. I've got today.” 

“And you're serious about calling me?” 

“As a heart attack.” 

Cas smiles. 

“I think,” Cas says, stretching out his legs, “That I am entirely too unwell to go to lectures.” 

“You gonna play hooky with me?” Dean grins. 

“Yes,” Cas declares, kicking off the covers and standing up, “I'll cook breakfast.” 

“You cook?” Dean asks, watching Cas pull on a clean shirt. 

“What is your obsession with believing that I'm incapable of cooking? I can make pancakes, Dean.” 

“Pancakes, huh? I thought choppin’ was your speciality,” 

“Dean, I live off campus. I _cook_. I feed myself.” 

“Uh uh. You live off coffee and bacon, sweetheart, don't forget I saw your fridge.” 

“You went into my fridge while I was unconscious.” 

“You drunk dialed me three years after we broke up.” Dean throws back. 

“You can't use that to win any debate indefinitely.” Cas says, pausing by the doorway, affection wreaking from every inch of his body language. Dean’s not entirely sure how they wound up back in a positive space, but everything about this is awesome. 

“Watch me,” Dean grins, standing up, “I wanna watch you burn the pancakes.” 

“Dean,” Cas sighs,”I _can cook_.” 

“Whatever you say, Cas,” Dean says, following him out into the longue, then into the kitchen. 

“You are infuriating. I had forgotten.” 

“You think it's adorable,” Dean throws back, voice light, “Come on.” 

“I have an affliction where everything you do is frustratingly charming,” Cas says, “It is _a problem._ ” 

“You know,” Dean smirks, “I'm okay with it.” 

“Coffee?” 

“You know me,” Cas, Dean says, “I think you're cute too, you know. With your goddamn pout and the most pathetic hangover I've ever seen.” 

“Yes that is how I win over all the boys,” Cas says, dryly, “By vomiting over breakfast dates." 

"Huh, dunno if that first one counts. We _could_ go for a breakfast date, if you wanna admit you can't cook-” 

“ - Dean,” Cas growls in frustration, pausing in retrieving eggs from the cupboard to growl at him. “Just because I don’t cook things like Lasagne doesn’t mean that I can’t cook pancakes.” 

“No, Clarence,” Meg says, stepping into the main room in an oversized t-shirt and not a whole lot else, yesterday’s lipstick still staining her smirk red. “The fact that you burn things means you can’t cook pancakes.” 

“Meg, you remember that I am very irritated with you. You’re supposed to back me up.” 

“You know it makes me all tingley when you tell me what to do,” Meg says, leaning past him to take the last of the pot of coffee. 

“You're both insufferable,” Cas says, sounding very pleased about that fact, brushing against Dean as he starts on another packet of coffee. Dean’s hand drops to his hips on automatic as he passes. “Are you going to be speaking to your academic supervisor today?” 

“Sure, Clarence, right after I convert to mormonism and just before I blow my brains out. What are you two crazy love bugs doing today?” Meg drawls, downing her coffee in one swoop. 

“Dean’s leaving tomorrow,” 

“No place like _Kansas_ , huh?” 

“My brother,” Dean says, “He’s got exams soon, so…” 

“Right,” Meg says, eyes narrowing, “The brother. I’m taking the shower.” 

“I don’t get it,” Dean says, after she’s retreated. “Meg. I don’t get it.”

“I wasn’t anticipating you would,” Cas says, settling close to him, “I will try and explain it when you call.”

“Hmm, deal,” Dean hums, then Cas kisses him until the pancakes burn.

*

Meg steps in the room just after her shower to tell them she’s going to ‘get bitched at’ at Kelly and Hannah’s while they’re watching Dr Sexy and that she’s probably going to be out all day. She says it with a pointed eyebrow raise and some kind of meaningful look that Dean’s pretty sure he can decipher.

A familiar intense kind of tension starts to build after she’s left, crackling between them while Dr Sexy drones on on the TV. Dean shifts on the damn sofa to try and diffuse _something_ , but he just winds up becoming more achingly aware that Cas is _right there_ and that, come tomorrow, he won’t... He’ll be miles and miles away and we wouldn’t be able to - would have no opportunity to - 

“Dean,” Cas says, voice rough, “This show is _terrible_.”

“Uh, yeah.”

Dean fumbles for the remote and switches it off. They both just sit for a few long moments before he figures _fuck it_ for the however many hundredth time since he got to freaking New Haven, then he turns in his seat and kisses him with every single freaking emotion lurking in his head.

As goodbye sex goes, it’s the best they’ve had.

*

After a clubbed together lunch of the dregs of groceries they got last time, Dean does a full check of Cas’ car (still a piece of crap, but now a safe, fully functioning one) while Cas talks out the pros and cons of allowing Hester to give his father his email address. By the time Dean’s showered off the engine grease and stuck a ‘how to maintain your car for dumbasses’ checklist on Cas’ fridge, Cas has pulled his father’s email address off the email Hester forwarded to him and his composing his own reply.

He settles on something formal and neutral, that’s unlikely to flare up any old hurts or burn any bridges. It’s an epitome of his current lack of decision; a door half open, with the ball pushed back into his father’s court. He doesn’t send it. He declares that he would like to get Meg’s opinion on it first, and perhaps Kelly or Gabriel.

Dean suggests they take a walk, which winds up with him taking an excessive amount of pictures for Sam’s sake. Cas mentions off hand that they’re near his favourite restaurant and then they’re having italian at the kind of place that looks at you funny if you order beer. It’s fucking _delicious_ , though, and Cas doesn’t care that Dean’s kind of a moron when it comes to nice restaurants.

Their second attempt at goodbye sex is slow and intense and they don’t talk about the fact that Dean’s leaving in the morning. Dean winds up being the one curled up against Cas’ side, for once, with Cas running his fingers through his hair and asking deep, big questions about Sam and John Winchester and Bobby, before he falls asleep between one confession and the next, Cas still holding him close.

He wakes up after Cas the next morning, after a surprisingly okay night’s sleep. They screw again because they’re both goddamn idiots and glutton for punishment. Cas forces a travel mug of coffee on him while he packs up his crap and Dean doesn’t even have the heart to mock him for being the kind of dorky that has a goddamn travel mug, and then they’re out in the parking lot and Cas’ eyes are blue and sad and Dean can’t fucking deal with any of it.

“Call me from the road,” Cas says, after Dean’s released him from a too-long hug.

He doesn’t have a whole lot of _words_ left in him, so he gives Cas an inane salute before he gets in his car and begins to drive. 

*

Dean’s less than twenty miles out of town when he runs into a gas joint that's cheaper than anything has seen for awhile. He needs to pick up some road food that hasn't been sat, open, in his car for the best part of week, anyway, and once he’s hit some clear highway he’d rather keep pushing through than make any stops. He wants to make some serious distance by tonight, because the first leg of the journey when he's driving _away_ from Cas while not feeling closer _to_ Sam is gonna be the worst. When he gets over half way he's banking on it being easier, but he'd rather push himself in this first stretch. He grabs some potato chips and some peanuts along with a couple of those energy drinks that taste like ass but are full of enough sugar and caffeine to keep anyone awake, then he decides _why the fuck not_ and digs his phone out of his pocket to call Cas. 

“Dean,” Cas answers, voice all wrinkled with confusion, and somehow all the better transmitted down a phone line. He’s always liked Cas’ phone voice, which is probably going to be handy right about now. 

“Hey Cas,” Dean says, shutting the impala door behind him as he gets back in the car, fingers closing round Cas’ damn travel mug with a half-smile.

“You - where are you?”

“Gas station,” Dean says, “I said I'd call you from the road.”

“Dean.”

“Wait, I just heard that how you would have heard that. This is not the only time I'm gonna call you. I am definitely gonna call you from further along down the road, too, I just, uh, wanted to make something clear from the off.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, taking a sip of coffee, “I don't do planes.”

“I know that.” 

“Yeah, but I, I really don't do planes, Cas. I'm not talkin’ a mild dislike here. They scare the crap out of me. I mean thinking about being on a plane makes me feel like I'm gonna throw up. It's a full frontal phobia. It's damn embarrassing, but there you go.”

“Okay, Dean.” Cas says and, yeah, he’s confused. Dean wedges his phone under his ear as he digs out a new tape and works out the best way to arrange his road trip food on the passenger seat.

“So, it's not that I don't _want_ to do planes, I just- I can't. I can't do it.”

Cas is quiet for a few moments.

“And you wanted me to know about your phobia of aircraft?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “For context. Future reference. Planes will not be happening.”

“Dean,” Cas says, voice velvet rich and gorgeous, suddenly warm enough that Dean’s pretty sure that Cas _gets_ what he’s trying to say, in his repressed Dean- like way of saying crap. “I have no such qualms about air travel.”

“I know that.”

“I _do_ do planes.”

“Yeah that's been mentioned once or twice,” Dean says, voice light.

“Dean, to be clear,” Cas says, “If I were to fly to Kansas, at some point, would that be something you could do?”

“Yeah, I, I think I could do that.”

A few minutes later, he’s back on the road, feeling a hell of a lot _lighter_ than he did when he was making the reverse journey, even if he still hasn’t got a fucking clue what the hell he’s doing. Damn all the complications, though, because for the first time he’s feeling good about the whole mess of uncertainty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prooggressssss, right?


	6. Chapter 6

He makes good time on the way back to Lawrence, rolling back into town with a good few solid days before Sam’s exams kick in and, _damnit_ , but it’s freaking awesome to pull up in the parking lot of their apartment building with the knowledge that he’s _home_.

Sam pulls him into a tight hug when Dean drags his bag through their front door and there’s a chance that Bobby might have been right about giving him space, because the rhythm of their brief every-other-night phone calls largely about his progress home has meant that Sam actually looks freaking _excited_ to see him, which hasn’t happen for a while. Mostly, before Dean took to the road they were just arguing and griping at each other, about college, about Sam’s independence, about Dean getting some kind of life rather than living vicariously through his sad-act little brother (who cancelled his goddamn relationship to focus on his final year of high school so, yeah, Dean’s frigging pathetic alright). 

“So you made it home, y’idjit,” Bobby says, from the sofa, where’s he’s nursing a soda like he owns the damn place. “‘Bout damned time. Sick of hearing you both whining.”

“Missed you too, old man,” Dean grins, dumping his duffle bag in his room before swiping Sam’s soda and his seat, because being an annoying asshat is kind of part of the big brother contract, and Dean hasn’t seen one of those bitch faces for way too goddamn long. Sam rolls his eyes pointedly and _fuck_ Dean is never leaving him alone for this long again if he can help it. Not even if Sam does actually throw him out, next time.

“Bobby’s staying for burgers,” Sam says, getting himself another soda and taking the other seat. “And he bought beer.”

“Home sweet home, Sammy,” 

“Whatever, jerk,” Sam smiles, then launches into to a tirade about school that carries them through to the end of his soda. Sam is fine and Bobby’s friendly enough with their couch that Dean’s not worried that he left the kid alone for a couple of day’s longer than he was anticipating when he set off driving. He knew he would be fine, really, but that didn’t temper the pull in his gut that’s made him feel steadily crabbier for the whole journey home ( and Bobby is a goddamn saint letting him complain about it). Bobby butts in to bitch about the school system sounding grumpy enough about it that it pulls a laugh from his chest and, damn, it is good to be home. It's good to _have_ the kind of home that makes him feel secure and settled, for the first time in a very long time.

Maybe Dean doesn’t get it for all that much longer, but _this_ is still a lot better than he ever thought he could have it when he was eighteen and scared of the whole world.

Then his phone starts blaring out metallica from his back pocket and it's _Cas_ calling. Dean glances at it for a moment before the other tug of longing kicks in and it occurs to him for the six hundredth time since he set off on the one thousand three hundred mile drive how royally screwed he is, because nothing whatsoever has gotten any clearer since he left New Haven. He figured that driving would help, because driving usually helped. He figured that calling Cas every damn night and talking for way too long would _help_ him detangle some stuff in his head, but he's still just as equal parts emotionally invested and thoroughly pissed off, and the drive didn't make the long distance feel less far, or spark a sudden wave of trust and forgiveness. It's _still_ a hotbed of issues and they still haven't addressed any of it, on Dean's insistence.

He's not there yet, he's just also not at a point where he doesn't feel a dumb wave of happiness every time Cas’ name comes up on his phone, either.

“Hold that thought, Sammy,” Dean says, standing up and stepping into the kitchen before hitting answer, leaning against counter as he shuts his eyes for a brief moment. “Hey.”

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, voice warm and gorgeous. “I was expecting to be speaking to your voicemail. Are you taking a driving break?”

“No, uh, just got back,” Dean says, “Through the door of our place fifteen minutes back. Was about to text you.” 

“You should know that that should be impossible if you stick to the speed limit,” Cas says, which probably means that Dean’s been giving him too many updates about his whereabouts. That and the fact that no one should have given the guy a freaking smartphone, because he’s a goddamn adorable mess when it comes to google maps. Still. He doesn’t exactly regret any of the communication they’ve had since he left Connecticut - the texting and the phone calls have all been awesome - he just figured that he’d have more than ten minutes of peace before _Sam_ got involved with the whole damn thing.

“What can I say, man, sometimes a guy just wants to get home.”

“You should go catch up with Sam,” Cas says, voice bathed in affection that Dean’s not all that sure he can give up. Not from Cas. Not _again_. It’s just that he doesn’t have an answer to the question of where the fuck that leaves them, and he knows that Sam is going to ask.

“Got Bobby here too,” Dean says, “But I'll, uh, call you, later.”

He gets silence and not the good kind, either, but the kind that stems from the insecurity of this whole _thing_ being tentative and undefined. Cas doesn't trust him a whole lot either, or he wouldn't be so quick to assume that Dean's just looking for an opportunity to blow him off.

“Later tonight,” Dean corrects, grip tightening on his phone. Sam is gonna have his ass so damn hard, and Dean's got nothing sensible to tell him, but it's… Its gonna be worth it. Or he’ll break himself all over again. One of the two.

“Okay Dean.”

“Okay,” Dean echoes back, chest constructing as he ends the call and steps back into the front room to find both Sam and Bobby staring at him. “Not polite to eavesdrop, asshats.”

“So,” Sam says, mouth poised, “You drove to New Haven just to check that Castiel was okay after hearing from his father, stayed a couple of days, then you carried on your road trip, huh?”

“Hey,” Dean say, dropping his phone onto the sofa and sitting down, heavily, “We both knew that was crap when I was saying it.”

“Dean,” Sam says, “What are you doing?” 

“Do you feel like we've had this conversation where I tell you to butt out before? I’m pretty sure we talked about this. Deja vu’s a bitch, _bitch_.” 

“Uh, yeah Dean, we talked about this over a year ago, the last time it was relevant. And the year before that… Because in between those times you said it was done,” Sam says, pointed enough that the he probably practiced it. He had plenty of opportunity to. Sam knows him well enough to have known what was going to happen the second he told him he was driving to New Haven, it’s just Cas that neither of them know how to predict.

“Your face is done, Sammy. Leave it.”

“Have you been in contact with him the whole time?” Sam asks, which throws Dean a little. That probably _would_ make a little more sense than Dean just driving out there after one dumb phone call, but he would have thought Sam knew he wouldn’t lie about something like that, for that long. He wasn’t exactly open about it before, sure, but that was before John Winchester died and before Sam came to live with him. He’s been pretty damn honest with his little brother since then, except about the odd thing that’s not worth the argument (like how he puts half his monthly paycheck into Sam’s college fund or the number of times he’s used looking after his little brother as an excuse to redrail the odd half-relationship from becoming serious).

“No,” Dean says, crushing his empty can of soda in his hand.

“But you're in contact now?”

That's one way of saying it. A good one that doesn't commit him to anything, really, except contact. Some kind of communication, while he hopes to hell that something will start to fall into place and make sense. 

“Yep.”

“You promised you wouldn't sleep with him,” Sam says, like the words are some kind of weapon. 

“True,” Dean says, forcing his voice into jovial, like none of this is a big deal, “You should've made it a bet, Sam, I'd owe you a _lot_ of money.” Sam's face creases in displeasure. The worried kind, rather than the straight up bitch face that Dean’s used to, which means he missed the mark slightly with his redirection tactics. Damnit. “Look, I've got it under control.”

“Dean, you didn't hear the way your voice just _changed_ when you picked up that call. I've never heard you talk to anyone like that. That's not _under control_. That's... you under his thumb all over again.”

“Okay,” Dean counters, voice picking up heat, because Sam’s always had an incredible ability to get under his skin and wind him up, especially with any suggestion that Dean’s _weak_ or whatever else shitty things Sam thinks about him.”Let's get one thing straight - whatever crap he's pulled before, Cas isn't a bad guy. Don't forget you used to be in the damn fan club.” 

“And now you're defending him? I can't believe this -”

“ - I just saying he's not some kind of fucking demon ex boyfriend. It didn't work because he moved to goddamn Connecticut. If he hadn't then, I don't know, we wouldn't have tanked. It wouldn’t… wouldn’t have been such a damned mess.” 

“Okay,” Sam says, “And is he _moving back_ from New Haven after he's finished his degree?”

“No”, Dean says, heated, “Chances are, he’s staying at Yale.”

“So why has _anything_ changed, Dean?”

Damn little brother with his fucking logic and his ability to shrink all of this massive goddamn _complication_ down as if it’s that simple. If anything about his relationship with Cas has ever been a simple matter of distance, or whatever else.

“What do you want me to say, Sam? I went over there, I got sucked in and now we're frigging pen pals. It is what it is, and it's sure as hell not your business -”

“Did you even talk about what you're doing?”

And that’s it. He’s _done_ because, damnit, he doesn’t know. He’d figured he’d have some kind of answer by the time he got there, but he doesn’t. He knows, vaguely, what he wants if he could rearrange the whole universe, but he’s got to work out the practical side of that bullcrap; whether he _wants_ anything enough to put up with the flipside, how that would even work, whether they _could_ even make it work. If he _really_ wants it, or if this is just some kind of freak out related to the fact that Sam is currently in the middle of planning his great escape and Dean’s got no fucking idea what his life looks like after that happens. _Maybe_ him driving to Cas hasn’t got a damn thing to do with _Cas_ and it’s to do with him resetting to the only other person who’s ever needed him and put up with enough of his crap.. It doesn’t feel like that, but it … it’s complicated. He needs to work it out. He needs to _think_. 

“Knock it out,” Dean says, squaring his jaw and looking away.

“What the hell _are_ you doing?” 

“Whatever the hell I _want_. You don't understand, Sammy. You don't get it and you're not gonna, because you haven't - it's Cas, Sam. Cas. Logic doesn't come into the fucking equation, so I need you back off.”

“Are you still in love with him?” Sam demands, like the very idea of it is absurd, which it is. It’s been _years_. The concept of him being in love with him should be ridiculous, but apparently that’s what he gets for choosing repression as his primary method of dealing with shit.

Dean's jaw tightens.

“Sam, I really need you not to give me a hard time about this,” Dean manages, raw enough that Sam actually seems to _listen_ , which is probably more than he ever intended to reveal, especially with Bobby in the damn room, when he hasn’t even unpacked yet. Goddamnit.

“Dean,” Sam says, the challenge gone from his voice and settling on the kind of sympathetic which makes him want to punch someone in the face just so that he has something to do with the frustration simmering in his stomach. 

Dean’s damn sure he doesn’t want to hear whatever the hell else Sam has to say about _that_ either, so he cuts in before he has a chance.

“I don't have any goddamn answers for you. I swear. The second I work out what the hell is going on, I will _tell you_.”

“Is he in love with you too?”

“I,” Dean begins, the image of Cas crumpling whenever his mind drifted back to his Dad coming into his head. The thought of Cas writing those dumbass notes in his textbooks. Cas watching him watch doctor sexy. “I really don't wanna know the answer to that question. Let's move the hell along.”

“Dean.”

“Moving on,” Dean says, voice final, sharp. “Bobby. Another conversation topic. Please god.”

“I found you another car,” Bobby says, assessing him, but without the anger-inducing sympathy routine that Sam’s displaying. He’s definitely watching him carefully and he almost definitely has an opinion about all of this, but at least Bobby’s a little politer about it. “ Reckon you'll like her. She'll need a new just about everything, but --”

“Bobby,” Dean says, “I told you that it wasn't - that Chevy was a one off.”

“That's a damn shame,” Bobby says, “because I already bought the damn thing.” 

“What? Why - I'll pay you back”

“It's a gift, y’idjit,” Bobby says, watching him over his soda, “Reckon you can make a good start in a week.”

“Well, I was gonna see if I could head back to work early given I've got nothing better to do -”

“ - You that bored I got some jobs for you to do, y’idjit.”

“Now, come on Bobby, I ain't doing your laundry -”

“ - Uh uh. Quit mouthing off at me or I will bring round my damn laundry. Take the rest of your holiday, kid. Rufus won't hear of you doing anything different -”

“Fine,” Dean says, “but only to save Rufus bitching at me -”

“Bought you a program of this semester's evening classes, too,” Bobby says, “Sam's picked you some out.”

“You watch it you two, or I'm gonna go on another freaking road trip.”

“Sure,” Bobby scoffs, “Took enough ear bending to get you out the door last time.”

“I'm gonna start on the burgers,” Sam says, “Give you a chance to swap notes on how I've been.”

“No idea what you're talking about Sam,” Dean calls out, “And bring me a beer.”

“ _Do_ you know what you're doing?” Bobby asks, quieter, after Sam’s left the room. He doesn’t lean forward in his seat as he asks, but his gaze is pointed, digging. Dean’s damn lucky to have Bobby. They both are.

“You're gonna have to be more specific, Bobby.”

“About your boy.”

“We're,” Dean begins, digging out for the word that Sam used, and easing out the pointed creases his little brother made in the phrase, “In contact. That's it.”

“Mhmm. How much contact?”

“I -some.”

“Right,” Bobby says, “Some.“

“Daily,” Dean says, squaring his shoulders slightly, “And what?”

“And nothing. Just watching your back, boy.”

“Sure. And I appreciate it, just don't wanna talk about it. How is Sam? He sounded pretty freaked the other day.”

“Sounds about as freaked as any other seventeen year old,” Bobby shrugs, “Signed up to every damn college talk, Q &A and extra help thing the schools got going. Already tracking down which teacher he's gonna get to write his letter of recommendation. He's got a pro and con list for every college in the states, and a couple for Canada.”

“Canada? The hell is that happening.”

“It’s cute that you think any of this is up to you, y’idjit,” Bobby says, eyes shaded with something like empathy, but gruff and buried under a layer of ornery affection. Bobby’s tough-loved him into dealing with a lot of his crap at this point, and the ‘letting Sam be Sam’ thing has been his project for a while. 

“Like to think I have a veto.”

“You don't,” Bobby says, not unkindly. 

“Maybe,” Dean grouches, “But I can still put salt in his cereal until the summer. Get him coal for Christmas.”

“Speaking of,” Bobby says, “Jo is joining us for Christmas.”

“Awh, Bobby, I didn't know we were invited for Christmas.”

“Smart ass,” Bobby mutters under his breath. 

“Sammy,” Dean calls out to the kitchen, “Did you know we're invited for Christmas? And what happened to that beer you were getting me?”

“You quit your yammering.”

“So _Jo_ is coming for Christmas, huh. You'd think she'd wanna spend it with her mom…”

“Yeah,” Sam interjects, smirking from the doorway with Dean’s beer in hand, “You'd _think_ she'd want to see her mom after being away for college -”

“What _is_ Ellen doing for Christmas, old timer?” Dean grins, as Sam passes him the beer. He’s sure as hell missed _this_. Phone calls isn’t the same as having Sam’s smirk in the flesh, or Bobby’s overzealous eye rolls.

“Dumbass idjits, the both of you.”

“Oh, you mean Ellen is coming _too_. Why didn't you say so, Bobby? Didn't wanna say that your _girlfriend_ is invited to Christmas-?”

“She's moving in with me, genius.”

“Holy shit,” Dean grins, “Well -”

“Shut up,” Bobby says, before Dean can say anything else, but he looks kind of happy about it. 

“That's great, Bobby, really,” Sam says, clapping him on the shoulder before disappearing back into the kitchen, leaving the door open wide so that he’s still part of the conversation. 

“I’m just pleased that bonding over me bought you two lovebird together,” Dean interjects, grinning.

“You ever get tired of being wrong?” Bobby says, exasperated. 

“Hey is _that_ the grunt work you need me for? Moving your decades of crap so that Ellen doesn’t stumble into your basement and figure that you’re some kind of a serial killer in a baseball cap.”

“Lap it up, boy, and we’ll see if it’s funny when she’s riding your ass for being four classes way from finishing community college and not doing a damn thing about it over Thanksgiving Dinner.” 

“I - you wouldn’t.”

“We’ll see,” Bobby grouses. 

“Hey,” Sam says, stepping back into the front room, “Bobby, did you bring over the new brake light?”

“Yep,” Bobby says, “And you can pay me in burgers, before either of you starts getting ideas about giving me some damn money.”

“You've got a brake light out?” Dean asks, frowning.

“It went today, Dean,” Sam says, “But I was thinking I could take the impala tomorrow -”

“I can fix it now, less you _want_ baby...”

“Yeah, I wanna drive her, unless you and Cas got up to anything gross in her.”

“Nope.” Dean says, then pauses for effect, “Not recently, anyway.”

Sam makes a face.

“Eurgh, Dean.”

“Right. You share a goddamn room with your kid brother when you're seventeen and we'll see if you get creative. Don’t tell Sonny I said that.”

“Urgh,” Sam says, face twisted into disgust.

“I ain’t disagreeing,” Bobby pipes up.

It’s a damn good evening. 

*

He calls Cas a little after Bobby has left, when Sam has reluctantly declared that he needs to study and has left Dean with the dishes and unpacking. Dean swipes himself another beer from the pack Bobby bought round and does a stock take of the fridge to work out what groceries they need. He needs to call Sonny and work out if he needs any help round the farm or with any of the kids and he needs to work out how much money he spent on his damn road trip to work out how far away he is from being able to afford half a semester of tuition at fucking Harvard, or wherever else. All of that can wait, though, because it’s been a _good_ evening and because he promised Cas he’d call him tonight.

“Hey,” Dean says, when Cas picks up, wedging his phone under his ear as he runs the tap to wash up the dishes. 

“You’re home?” Cas asks.

“Yep,” Dean says, “Home sweet Kansas.”

“Was the rest of your journey smooth?” Cas asks, too formal and a little stiff, decidedly more awkward than he’s sounded in any of the rest of their conversations. Dean test the temperature of the water before putting the plug in the sink

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Smooth enough. How was, uh, your day?”

“Long.”

“Okay,” Dean says, when Cas doesn’t elaborate, “Well. I’m just doing the dishes.” 

“I’ll let you get back to it,” Cas says, voice full of _something_ Dean can’t decipher, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay then,” Dean says, setting his phone down the kitchen counter and staring at it for a few long moments because… because _that_ wasn’t part of the plan.

When he was driving, they’d been averaging a half hour phone call every night and a dozen or so dumb text messages from Dean’s food or gas breaks, mostly full of them picking up threads of conversation and them dropping them again, almost-jokes and updates of their days. _Now_ he hasn’t got a single text since he got back to Lawrence and a conversation that didn’t even stretch out for a whole two minutes. 

He sends him a ‘night’ text before he goes to bed, because they’ve been doing that since he left and it feels like it would mean something if he didn’t. Cas sends him a ‘goodnight’ back, and that’s it.

*

Dean sleeps past Sam’s leaving for school the next morning by accident, but his bed is sixteen times more comfortable than any of the shitty motels he’s been sleeping at and the exhaustion of driving seems to have hit him now he’s stopped. He spends the morning fixing Sam’s brake light and ignoring his laundry, before driving out to Sonny’s just before lunch to check in and offer his services doing whatever the hell is useful. 

He winds up cleaning out the barn in comfortable silence with Sonny and Jack, then fixing them and one of kids who’s been excluded from school for the next week sandwiches. Sonny’s got two more boys joining him next week, one on a more permanent basis, and he’s doing well. Money is tight, but that’s always been the case. The catch up is _good_ and he talks Sonny into letting him come and help out in the mornings till he’s back at work, with the promise that he’ll bring Sam for his regular tutoring slot over on Sunday afternoon. Sonny claps him on the shoulder and tells him he’s proud of him as he’s leaving to pick up groceries for every single one of Sam’s favourite meals, and that has Dean humming to himself in the damn grocery store like a schmuck. 

His good mood fades a little after a second stilted, short conversation with Cas that evening. Dean winds up wrapping it up three minutes in, this time, with a curt promise that he’ll call tomorrow. 

Sam raises his eyes at him over the nacho, quesadilla and chilli feast leftovers that his gigantor little brother is clearly considering trying to finish off, but doesn’t comment. They watch a crappy old Western instead, Sam with a text book propped up on his knees and Dean staring at his phone wondering what the hell _happened_ that suddenly turned this whole thing a little sour.

*

He sleeps in the next day, too, and feels a little shitty about it. He quashes that down with bacon and a morning of cutting back Sonny’s trees, before letting himself into Bobby’s backyard to look at the car Bobby picked out for him. As cars go, she’s beat up and gorgeous and probably the best gift anyone’s ever got him, and all his arguments about how he _doesn’t_ restore cars - that it was a one off - are dead in the water the second he looks inside her hood and sees the botched job whatever heathen that worked on her last, did. By the time he realises that Sam’s about to finish school, he’s already started pricing up what it’s gonna cost to fix her and started looking up places he could sell her when he’s done.

It’s Friday and Sam doesn’t have any plans, so Dean drags him out to a movie that neither of them are that invested in seeing, but he gets Sam’s commentary through the whole crappy thing and it’s all kinds of awesome, even if Sam insists on buying the popcorn and pointedly reminds Dean that he’s working tomorrow when Dean tries to talk him into a movie marathon.

He gets Cas’ voicemail when he tries to call. He gets a text message half an hour later that tells him he’s in the library and he’ll call him tomorrow, which Dean doesn't reply to because he doubts it will do any good.

*

“Dude,” Dean begins on Saturday morning, when he gets up to find Sam’s already up, alive, and doing freaking housework, like the freak-teenager Sam has always been. “Are you doing my laundry?”

“It didn’t look like you were ever going to get to it,” Sam says, which is a fair point, given that Dean’s steadfastly ignored unpacking his crap ever since he got back here. “And what’s with the travel mug, dude? I thought they were on the _douchebag_ list right under sunglasses indoors and preachy vegans.”

“Not mine. Cas’.” Dean says, finishing off the coffee pot Sam must have put on and grimacing, leaning against the kitchen counter as Sam finishes washing up his breakfast crap.“You know, other people have coffee that doesn’t taste like ass.”

“You _buy_ the coffee, cheapskate,” Sam throws back, “And you mean other people like _Castiel_.”

“Cas,” Dean agrees, “Lisa. Coffee shops. Lots of other people.”

“Is he going to be collecting his travel mug?” Sam asks, nodding at where it’s sat on the kitchen counter. That’s the first time Sam’s mentioned anything to do with it since their big talk the other day, and it’s probably a fair question. This whole thing probably seems even more unfathomable to Sam now that he’s barely spoken to Cas since Dean got back here.

“Dunno,” Dean says, pausing to stare at it, something painful lodged in his throat. “Guess he’ll probably show up in Lawrence at some point, given Hester and Inias still live here.”

“Right,” Sam says, “So he’ll pick it up if he’s visiting his family?”

“Sam,” Dean sighs.

“It's been three days,” Sam says, “And you're already spending half the time glaring at your phone, waiting for him to call you.”

“Look, I don't know that you have a whole lot to worry about. He's - he's barely talked to me since I got back here, so it doesn't freaking matter.”

“God, Dean, Cas acting hot and cold, what a surprise.”

“Alright. I get it,” Dean says, taking a swig of coffee, “You hate Cas, you’re team Dean alone forever. Whatever.”

“Those aren’t they only options,” Sam says, setting his plate on the drying rack, “I need to get to work.”

“You dropped your hours yet?” Dean asks, a little more confrontational than he probably should be, given everything. It’s not Sam that he’s irritated at right now. It’s the fact that he, once again, has no fucking clue what is going on in Cas’ head. That’s absolutely nothing to do with _Sam_ , but that doesn’t seem to matter to his asshole-instinct. 

“Deal with your crap, Dean.” Sam says, voice icy as he grabs his jacket and his car keys. “Don’t put it on me.”

“Well, fuck you too,” Dean calls after him, “And have a good day at work, jackass.”

Sam just shuts the front door with a forceful _click_ rather than bother responding to him. 

And that’s enough to put him in a shitty enough mood that calling Cas _right now_ seems like a stellar idea. To hell with the fact that the new rhythm of their thing means that it’s _Cas’_ turn to call him, at some point this evening, for a stilted how-was-your-day-dear conversation before either one of them find some excuse to hang up. 

No fucking way. 

Not after the better part of a week with all this stuff in their relationship slotting into place. Not after the way Cas kissed him goodbye. Not after the two nights on the drive home where he fell asleep on the phone to Cas because they were talking for too long. Cas is not ditching out on him again. Not this time. 

“So here's a question for you,” Dean asks when Cas picks up, adrenaline pumping through his veins, anger running through his blood. “What the fuck is your problem, Cas?” Cas is opaquely quiet and that’s even _more_ annoying than the last three crappy days of nonchalance. “So I get home and suddenly you don't wanna talk to me anymore? Why _ask_ if I'm gonna call you if you're gonna stop answering after three damn days -”

“I really was at the library, Dean,” Cas says, sounding suddenly tired. 

“A fucking plus, Cas.”

“I'm not - I _want_ to speak to you,” Cas says, voice pained, stitled. Goddamnit.

“Then _talk_ , Cas, I'm all ears.”

“Not especially right now, given you appear to be in a terrible mood.”

“Don't push me,” Dean mutters, throwing himself onto the sofa and glaring at the ceiling. “ _Three_ days of crappy nothing calls and I’ve got my little brother asking me what the hell is going on -”

“ - he’s not the only one who wants an answer to that question, Dean,” Cas throws back, voice picking up a little heat of his own. They’ve always been good at winding each other up, but that doesn’t necessarily feel like a bad thing right now. Cas is little more of an open book when his irritated; he’s more honest about his emotions, at least. “I am _sorry_ if I’ve been doing whatever it is that I’m supposed to be doing wrong but I have _no idea_ what you expect of me.”

“Okay, fine,” Dean says because _that_ is fair enough, “Then you _ask_ , Cas. Damnit. We are not going back to that bullcrap where you don’t say what’s on your mind and hate me for not figuring it out.”

“I have never _hated_ you.”

“You’re focusing in on the wrong damn point,” Dean says, “I don’t know what the hell we’re doing either, Cas. I don’t know. I have no fucking idea, but I know that I hate _this_ , so will you freaking talk to me?” 

“About _what_ , Dean?” Cas asks, voice warm and gravelly and so goddamn frustrated, and all of this would be so much easier if Dean could get a read on his body language. He needs to know where Cas would fix his gaze at, what the slant of shoulders would be, the exact tilt of his eyebrow. Then Dean would know if he could reach out and touch him. If _that_ would coax whatever it is that’s going on in his head out into the open. It’s… doing all of this over a goddamn _call_ is going to be a lot harder than it had ever been face-to-face, even if it eliminates the risk of them falling into bed together rather than dealing. 

“What,” Dean begins, then swallows and shuts his eyes and tries to refocus, “You started freaking out when you called just after I got home. What’s going on in your head?” 

“I”, Cas says, voice tight, “You said you'd call me from the road. You're not… on the road.”

Goddamnit.

“This would be a hell of a lot easier if you came out and said you don't trust me for shit either,” Dean exhales, grip tightening on his phone, “Cards all out on the table. All our bullshit laid bare.”

“That sounds… incendiary,” Cas says, voice quieter, “You would rightfully point out that you have monopoly on being distrustful of me.”

“Huh,” Dean says, “Well, you got me there.”

“I don’t want to argue with you,”

“Then we got a problem, because I got no idea how we’re gonna steer this ship without arguing,” Dean says, rubbing his spare hand over his face, “ _Cas_ , I swear, I’m not - I’m not looking to bail on you. Feel like I’ve made that pretty fuckin’ clear, but if I haven’t…”

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas cuts across, “You don’t talk about how you feel.”

“No,” Dean agrees, “I don’t. You’re supposed to read between the goddamn lines. I drove to fucking _Conneticut_.” 

“I am _not good_ at reading between the lines, Dean, and it’s infinitely harder to do so when you’re this far away,” Cas says, “Yes, I started doubting what I’d read into your actions and your expressions while you were here after you got home, and I detest not trusting my own judgement. It is frustrating and _confusing_ and I don’t like it.”

“Well _stop_ ,” Dean says, “I - I care about you, Cas. Enough for it to freakin’ terrify me.”

“Okay,” Cas breathes, “Likewise, Dean.”

“And if I gotta actually use my _words_ about that, then, _okay_ , but I’m gonna need you to work with me here. That felt about as natural and ripping my fingernails off and if I don’t know that’s what you need from me then...”

“I don’t understand how I fit into your life,” Cas says, brazen and honest enough that it floors Dean for a few long moments, where he has to try and establish his equilibrium and work out what the hell he can even say to that.

“Honestly, man,” Dean says, through the something painful that’s lodged in the back of his throat, “I got no idea,”

“Oh,”

“But see - that’s what I wanna figure out. Why I didn’t wanna deal with this any of this crap when I was at Yale because that’s… that’s not how our lives are, Cas. That’s not goddamn reality. I… right now, my life is here, and your life is a really goddamn long way away, and I - damnit, _Cas_ I want to figure some way that you _fit_ , but we have this massive fucking history, and all this distance, and we’re fucking terrible at talkin’ to each other. I can’t… I can’t promise you shit right now, because I don’t know how any of this is gonna work, but if you can’t do that then…”

“What are you proposing?” Cas asks, voice more intimate than it’s sounded for a while. 

“That I’m gonna keep calling you,” Dean says, “That’s it. That’s all I’ve got on offer right now.”

“Okay,”

“Cas,” Dean says, quiet, “If that’s gonna mess things up with you - with your head, with your life, with your secret boyfriend you forgot to mention the whole time I was in New Haven - then I need you to tell me.” 

“There is no secret boyfriend,”

“Thank _fuck_ for that,” Dean says, “Cas, I’m serious about this. Last damn thing I wanna do is mess with your head again.”

“Dean,” Cas says, “I want you to keep calling me but I - I need you to let me know if you are going to _stop_ calling.”

“Yeah,” Dean breaths, “Yeah. Course, Cas. Even if you _try_ and talk me into a wordless break up again -” 

“ - I have certainly learnt my lesson in that regard,” Cas says, and it sounds a little like he’s smiling, “The good news is that we’ve established that we are able to have long distance arguments.” 

“Yeah,” Dean half laughs, humourlessly, “This conversation pretty much sucked.” 

“Indeed,”

“For the record,” Dean says, “Crap like the fact that you don’t trust me… even if it pisses me off and I act like an asshole, that’s… that’s need to know, intel. We need to talk about that shit.”

“Today?”

“Hell no,” Dean says, “We’ve covered enough ground today, definitely.”

“Yes,” Cas agrees, “We should talk about something _light_.”

“Okay,” Dean says, making himself more comfortable on the sofa and settling on looking up at the ceiling, “So tell me, Cas, what _are_ your views on ecofeminism?” 

Cas laughs, warm and affectionate, and his Saturday gets a little better after that.

*

Cas calls him again a little after half nine, when Dean’s eating take out pizza on the sofa with Doctor Sexy playing in the background, because Sam apparently has _some_ semblance of a life and is at a friend’s house and Dean couldn’t be bothered to cook after he got back from hanging round at Bobby’s place.

“Twice in one day, huh?” Dean asks, through a mouthful of pizza, “S’up, Cas?”

“Are you busy?”

“You at home?” Dean counters. 

“Yes.”

“Turn on NBC, that’ll answer your question.”

“Bare with me,” Cas says, shifting slightly, the TV starting up in the background, “You are watching… Doctor Sexy,” Cas say, sounding a helluva lot like he’s smiling that smile that makes his eyes crinkle and makes Dean’s stomach flip over.

“Now you are too,” Dean says, “Good times.” 

“It’s Saturday night,”

“Yeah, well, Sam’s out,” Dean says, through a slice of pizza, “You’re the college student with the friends and all that crap. What’s your excuse?” 

“Meg did invite me to a social event, but I’ve been boycotting any Meg-sanctioned parties for the past six months.”

“Riightt,” Dean says, “You’re gonna need to explain that to me at some point.”

“In good time,” Cas assures him, “Is that woman… dead?”

“On the show?” Dean asks, “Yeah. She’s haunting Doctor Sexy’s ex-wife. It’s, uh, yeah one of the weaker plotlines running.”

“You mean a _weaker_ plotline than a doctor wearing footwear that impractical?”

“Hey, back off the cowboy boots, sunshine,” Dean cuts in, “Good day?”

“Hmm. I’ve been studying, largely. I was calling you for a reason several days ago and I realised we never actually discussed it.” 

“Yeah?”

“I sent the email to my father,” Cas says, cool as anything, as Dean’s distracted enough by it that all the toppings from his pizza slide off and onto his shirt.

“Sonuva - ” Dean begins, a little disgruntled as he deposits the pepperoni on the side of the pizza box, “ _Really_? He replied yet?”

“Not as of yet,”

“How are you feeling about that?”

“About the lack of reply or the fact that I sent the message?”

“Both,” 

“I - this is not how heart transplants work, Dean,” Cas says, “It is very unlikely that -”

“ - _escapism_ , Cas, it’s not supposed to be realistic, it’s supposed to make you forget about how reality sucks. Anyway, quit getting distracted. Your father.”

“Yes,” Cas says, “My father. Except, Dean, I don’t understand why watching these surgeons discuss this irrelevant side plot is supposed to make me forget that I got a B on my last paper, or that I have a group assignment for a political theory paper worth twenty percent of my grade with a ‘hippy’ partner whose primary political leaning is that marijuana should be legalised.”

“Well he sounds like a riot,” Dean grins, “We’re not supposed to care about the side-plot, Cas, it’s just the surgeons have this whole will-they-won’t-they romance plot stretching back four seasons. Last season finale, the blonde one said that he was in love with him but they could never be together.”

“Because they’re brothers?” 

Dean nearly flips his whole pizza box off his lap.

“ _What?_ They’re not - what the hell?”

“It… It was heavily suggested in the episode we watched the day you left.”

“You - what? You were _watching_ that? Holy hell, Cas, I was just sat there thinking ‘bout how much I wanted to jump your bones. They’re freaking _brothers_. Man.”

“It’s a fairly common plotline, Dean.”

“You just _spoiled_ Doctor Sexy. What the hell.”

“I am deeply apologetic, Dean,” Cas says, sounding incredibly _not_ apologetic about a damn thing. He sounds a lot like he finds the whole thing amusing, which it probably is. This morning they were having a tense, crappy conversation about feelings and lack of trust and relationship definitions, so it’s all kinds of crazy that this evening they’re watching a damn TV show together from over a thousand miles away.

It’s pretty damn nice, actually. 

“It’s a good job your cute,” Dean grumbles, “We could turn this off and talk about your Dad, if you want.”

“No,” Cas says, “I’m enjoying this. We can talk about that later.”

“You meaning ruining my favourite goddamn TV show?”

“ _This_ is your favourite show?” Cas asks, voice dripping in amused affection. 

“Oh, shut up,” Dean mutters back, “Except uh, don’t.” 

“Whatever you want, Dean.”

Damn thing is, given it’s _Cas_ he probably means that.

Sam gets home just before half ten, at which point Cas is explaining why, exactly, the concept of a nurse also moonlighting as a sexy-nurse stripper was deeply unlikely, and Dean’s having a really fucking great evening.

“Hey Sammy,” Dean calls out, as he steps into the living room and raises his eyebrows at Dean’s position on the sofa, pizza box now deposited on the coffee table, phone still wedged under his ear. “Dude, your curfew isn’t for like half an hour. Get out of here, Sam. Push the boundaries. Go to a damn _party_.”

“Your brother’s home,” Cas says.

“I don’t have a curfew, jerk,” Sam says, “You talking to Cas?”

“Yes,” Dean says, “To both of you. No curfew sounds kind of irresponsible. Maybe we should talk about that.” 

“You’re an idiot,” Sam says, bending down to swipe a remaining slice of pizza.

“I’m adorable,” Dean throws back, “Cas, I’ll talk to you later. Call Kelly and make her make you have some fun. Allright. Later,” Dean says, as Cas gives his own goodbyes, pocketing his phone to look at his little brother. “Good night?” Dean asks, as Sam frowns at his pizza and heads to the kitchen, because Sam has this weird thing about only liking some kinds of pizza cold that Dean stopped trying to understand a long ass time ago.

“Yeah,” Sam says, as Dean follows him to the kitchen, “You seem happy.”

“Yeah, well, Bobby bought me a car,”

“Right,” Sam says, as he pulls out a plate and puts his slice of pizza in the microwave, “So you talked to Cas, huh?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Sam asks, bitchfacing at the microwave, “You’re so full of crap sometimes.”

“You charm the ladies with that cutting wit?” Dean says, “Yeah, we talked. We’re good.”

“So what does that mean?” Sam asks, as the microwave dings and he devours his slice of meat feast, despite the fact that kid definitely ate with Kevin. Dean forgets, sometimes, that mingled in with Sam’s overbearing worry for Dean’s welfare (which, okay, Sam definitely got from him), is the fact that Dean’s the only stability Sam’s had. They have Bobby now, obviously, and Sonny’s always going to have their back, but Dean’s the one that has made sure that Sam has somewhere to live and that his future is as taken care of as it can be. Sam is _emancipated_ , sure, but that was only possible because Sam knew that he could rely on Dean for a lot of the crap he needed. Sam’s a scared kid whose more alone in the world the most teenagers, too. He’s seventeen. He needs Dean to be solid. He needs Dean to have a game plan. If Dean drops out, Sam’s officially on his own. 

“It means,” Dean says, taking in his little brother’s reaction in the kitchen, “That I’m not cancelling the long distance call plan I took out when you forced me into this damn road trip. That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep,” Dean says, “My top priority right now is getting you to college, Sam. That hasn’t changed.” 

“That’s not what I want, either,” Sam says, not the least bit mollified, “It’s not a choice between doing what’s good for you and doing what’s good for me. I just - I just want you to be happy, Dean.”

“Sounds good to me,” Dean shrugs, hand resting on Sam’s shoulder. “I’m okay, Sam. Quit worrying.”

Sam mulls over this for a few moments.

“Movie marathon?” He suggests, expression still titled with dissatisfaction, but then this never was quite the deal that Sam wanted. He wanted independence without anything falling back on Dean. He wanted to be cut out of the social care system with no ramifications on anything else. To be entirely self sufficient, without having to give up his dream of an Ivy League college and being a normal teenager. Sam wants freaking everything and Dean wants him to have it, too, but that’s not going to happen without a little compromise and another two dozen of these debates before Christmas. 

“Awesome,” Dean says, reaching in the fridge to get himself a beer.

“I’m eating the rest of your pizza,” Sam says, unapologetic, as he disappears back into the front room to fetch the rest of it.

Castiel’s travel mug is still innocuously sat on their kitchen counter. Dean smiles at it like a first class asshole for a few long seconds, before he picks it up and puts in the cupboard alongside the couple of mugs Sonny bought him when he got his first apartment and the novelty mugs they’ve picked up along the way since. 


	7. Chapter 7

“Hey,” Dean says, phone wedged under his ear with his shoulder, as it feels like it has been for most of the past few weeks. He's a dab hand at multitasking now, from cooking and doing the dishes with Cas’ gravely monologue in his ear, to doing the goddamn shopping and watching crap day time television on the Saturday's Sam's at work while Cas tells him about his latest paper. It's a good, easy rhythm of whatever the hell it is their doing, even if that hasn't got any clearer. He's felt more alive and more _himself_ than he has for a good while, even if that’s backwards and probably a little screwed up.

And then _this week_ happened.

“Hello Dean.”

“Half under a freakin’ beautiful Mustang right now, so…” Dean continues, half because it’s _true_ and digging into an engine with one hand is doable but slow, and half because Dean's in a pretty shitty mood about the big undefined _them_ right now after a crappy night’s sleep and a week of almost butting heads with Sam in a way that never quite blossomed into an argument.

Dean’s pretty used to riding the wave of his internal bullcrap as it comes and goes in the past few years, with none of it feeling quite like it’s going to drown him, but dragging Cas along with it is another thing entirely. Most of the damn time, he’s just _avoided_ talking to Cas when the creeping sense that what they’re doing is dumb and guaranteed to gut him, at some point, until it passes.

“A mustang is a kind of car, I'm assuming.”

“You better be freaking joking, Cas, because _fuck me_ , dude.”

“I would love to,” Cas says, voice rough and way too damn hot, and _holy shit_ , but Dean was not expecting Cas to drop that on him at half twelve on a freaking Wednesday. Castiel needs to wear a goddamn bell, or have some kind of warning system for when he’s about to pull out _that_ voice in the middle of a damn conversation. “We should arrange that at some point.”

“Uh,” Dean says, brain whiting out for a few moments before a big freaking dose of reality hits him round the face. Goddamnit. He's at work. Rufus is right there and that’s a buzzkill if ever he needed one, as if all his dumbass emotions weren’t doing that for him. “ _Rain check_ on that.”

“You're supposed to be on your lunch break.”

Of course Cas knows that kind of shit at this stage of the game. Of _course_ he freaking knows, because they’ve been texting through his damn lunch breaks for most of the week. 

“Probably why my boss is coming over, too,” Dean says, extracting himself from under the car and wiping his grease stained hands on his jeans, re-adjusting his phone under his ear. “Didn’t we have a deal you were gonna call me when there was wifi, so my phone bill doesn't give me another goddamn heart attack?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “But… I am having a bad day.”

Damnit. Dean’s an asshole. He’s an asshole and he needs to snap out of his funk, because _Cas_.

“Like, Final Destination bad day or…?”

“You know I don't understand your references,” Cas says, but he sounds all syrupy and freaking gorgeous, like Cas does half the damn time.

“ _Or_ Doctor Sexy season sixteen, epsiode twelve, bad day.”

“I see that you're trying, but I still don't understand.”

“Awh, come on, we watched it last week.”

“Dean,”

“Anyway- shoot. What's up?”

“I just…I am rootlessly miserable today and I wanted to speak to you.”

He can do that. Even if his stomach is churning and he has the half familiar thought in the back of his head that he’s signing up for trouble is pressing in again, because Cas isn’t out of line by calling him just because at this point. That’s what they’re doing. That’s what they have been doing for long enough that _obviously_ Cas would call him in his lunch break because he’s having a shitty day. Any other day of the week, Dean wouldn’t be being such a baby about it. It’s just _right now_ he’d been planning a mini-retreat so he could clear a little more of the bullshit out of his head. 

It’s just that’s not how it works. 

“Well, okay,” Dean says, grabbing the sandwich Sam packed him for lunch and setting his ass down on the floor next to the break room. “I can do that.”

“I am sorry about your phone bill.”

“Man, you know I don’t care about that,” Dean says, a little of his work-facade slipping. “Not really.”

“Saving money is important to you.”

“Me and most of the world,” Dean says, “That’s not... . when we were kids, I didn’t have a dime to my name and I was skippin’ meals to pay for somewhere to sleep, but I’ve got flexibility right now. I can handle a rogue phone bill if you’re having a bad day and you wanna talk.”

“I hated the worry you carried about that,” Cas says, all earnest and brooding, and the thing is that’s probably something they need to address at some point, because Cas never did quite get it. He didn’t get that Dean didn’t have options, back then. He didn’t understand the concept of not having a safety net and the fear of free falling with not a damn thing to fall back on. Cas never _could_ get that, because he had Hester and money in the bank.

Mostly, he’s got no idea how they landed on this conversation in his freaking lunch break.

“Yeah, well, I’m just looking forward to being back to busting my ass to pay college tuition next year.”

“Is Sam any closer to a decision?”

“Nope, but it's hella early to decide anyway. It's not really a damn choice until he finds out who accepts him but, hey, we have a giant ass flowchart in our living room and six thousand college prospectuses propping up our coffee table,” Dean says, shutting his eyes for a moment as he realises he’s deflecting _again_ , which he promised himself he would cut out. If they’re gonna get anywhere with this, Dean needs to not pull that same crap that Cas pulled on him for years. It’s just he doesn’t want to get into any of this _right now_. “Point is - you call me whenever the hell you want.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says, “How is your day going?”

“Ah, you know. Keepin’ on grinding,” Dean says, watching as Rufus starts bitching at Roy about something or other that Dean’s glad he’s avoided, because it looks a hell of a lot like Rufus is in a crappy mood and Dean’s liable to snap when he’s this grouchy. Anyway, he’s got better things to do with his day than listen to Rufus grousing at him about whatever the hell it is that’s crawled up his ass. 

“Winchester, quit being anti-social and come play poker with us,” Walt calls out, tactless and loud as ever. 

“Eat shit, Walt, I'm busy.”

“You talking to your boyfriend again?”

“Nope. I’m talking to your damn girlfriend, now can it,” Dean throws out, phone pressed into his neck as he throws his insult back, “Sorry, Cas. You, uh - what we were talking about?” 

“ _Kid_ ,” Walt butts in again, “After work drinks Friday?”

“No,” Dean barks back, “Shut up. _Cas_. Talk to me.”

“You’re busy,” Cas says, “I can call you later, Dean.”

“I’ve got twenty minutes,” Dean says, “In theory. If my _asshat colleagues_ leave me the hell alone.”

“Dean,”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean exhales, “Damn, I - I’m sorry your day sucks.” 

“There’s nothing _wrong_ but I…” Cas pauses for a long few moments, “I want a hug.”

And _fuck that_ because… because there is not a damn thing he can do about that. Cas is over a thousand miles away and Dean can’t get freaking Walt to shut up for them to have a meaningful conversation in his lunch break. He _wants_ to freaking be there. Just about the only thing he wants to do right now is actually be able to deliver on that request. To give him a measly goddamn hug but, it’s… fuck all of it. Fuck _this_.

“Cas,” Dean mutters, chest aching. 

“It’s okay, Dean,” Cas says, rough.

“I’ll call you later, okay?” Dean says, swallowing back the shitty feeling of inadequacy at the back of his throat because _damn_.

He still doesn’t join their shitty poker game after they’ve done talking, though, but sits there eating his suddenly tasteless sandwich and staring at the last dozen or so messages from Castiel. He doesn’t actually send anything until the last few minutes of his break, where he types out a _go see Kelly & Hannah and talk it out_ followed by a _if I could be there I would_ even though it’s probably a bad idea, because some days this whole thing really screws up his head.

*

Wednesdays are crappy, anyway, down to it being the mid-week peak of Sam’s extra circular college-admissions-wet-dream schedule, meaning that Sam usually winds up getting home just before eight exhausted and in a prissy mood. Today has been complete bullcrap ever since that conversation with Cas that hollowed him out, to the point that he doesn’t even hear Sam getting back home from school until Sam physically removes Dean’s headphones off his head and raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Food’s in the fridge,” Dean says,glancing back down to his laptop on the assumption that’s all Sam wanted. It usually is on this kind of Wednesday, particularly when Dean’s not exactly projecting socialising vibes. Sam hovers, though, all long limbed and awkward. “School okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, narrowing his eyes at him, “You okay?”

“Fine,” Dean says, “Going through the bills.”

“You have a spreadsheet,” Sam says, staring at his laptop screen. Dean shuts the lid and shifts in his seat to face Sam properly, because his own mental bullshit should not affect Sam’s day. The whole reason he was going through the bills and double checking his bank statement was to remind himself that there was a point to all of this. The upshot of the last three years of working for Rufus, apart from the fact that he _likes_ his job most days, is that he’s earned them both security. The two years of working two jobs, the rest of the money from selling the car and the fact that he pours over all of this crap means that now, even if their damn apartment gets condemned again, they’ll be okay. Sam will go to college and Dean will do _something_ and all of it will have been worth it.

“Yep. I have a spreadsheet,” Dean affirms, taking in Sam’s particular expression, which he last saw right before Sam herded them into that conversation about his internship, but a little more conflicted. “Something you wanna share with the class, Sam?”

“Weird thing happened to me today.” 

“Uhuh.”

“The Principle called me into his office to ask me about parents evening,” Sam says, pulling up the other chair to sit down next to him, a little unsure. “They didn’t know what to do about it because of the whole… emancipation thing. So they asked if I wanted one.”

“They asked you if you _wanted_ a parents evening?” 

“They send the letters to the parent or guardians,” Sam says, “And I don’t have either of those thing so I guess they were coming up with a blank about what to put on the envelope. It was… weird. I mean, he talked to me about all of that after it went through to get my new address and an emergency contact, but he had my whole file out and said if I wanted you or someone else to could come along I could, but it was up to me.” 

“Don’t they usually do those things in the Spring anyway?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “They do the senior one early to talk to the parents about college applications.”

“Or how likely it is their kid’s gonna pass high school, early enough to do something about it,” Dean subs in, “Awesome. Well - what d’you tell him?” 

“I said that I didn’t need one,” Sam says, “I mean, I _know_ how I’m doing in at school, anyway. If I need to talk to my teacher’s about it, I can just hang around after class rather than blow an evening doing it. You’ve wasted enough of your time showing up to them.”

“Sam, it wasn’t a waste.”

“But it wasn’t your job,” Sam says, still looking at him over the table, and Dean’s got nothing to tell him. Maybe it wasn’t his job by definition, but Dean’s pretty sure John Winchester showed up to his parents-teacher evenings once and _that_ was because the school were calling him every damn day telling him that Dean was a disruption, skipping and threatening to chuck him out. He attended to put on a performance of taking on the grievances of his teachers before fixing Dean with a hard look and telling him to _knuckle down and stop drawing attention to himself_. It wasn’t a whole lot of fun, but it was probably still better than dealing with the sympathetic looks he used to get when he told them no one was coming, so, okay, maybe it was never Dean’s actual job, but Dean doing it sure as hell beat no one showing up. Dean doesn’t count any of that as a waste. “If you _want_ to go, I can go talk to him about it tomorrow.” 

“Nah,” Dean says, through the lump in the back of his throat, “Not like I don’t know enough about your college application journey anyway, jerk.” 

“Right,” Sam scoffs, “Did my homework while we were tutoring. You wanna watch a movie?”

“I’m beat. Rufus gets crabby this time of the month, so it’s been a long day. Tomorrow.” 

“Dean, come on,” Sam says, “What’s up?”

“Oh _sure_ , let’s have a freakin’ sleepover, talk about it.”

“So there _is_ something to talk about,” Sam says, “Is it Cas?”

“No,” Dean says, a little too firmly. 

“Fine,” Sam says, rolling his eyes and standing up. “You need to get out and do something _fun_ , Dean,” Sam continues, as he heads to the kitchen to put his dinner in the microwave. “Give yourself a break.”

“Oh, _I_ need to take a break, college-boy. When’s the last time you shut the books and had a life?”

“I went to a party last Saturday, Dean,” Sam bitch faces, hovering at the kitchen door, “I have fun. You haven’t engaged in a social interaction since you got back from New Haven, which was like a month ago. And, no, Bobby and Sonny don’t count.” 

“Timmy was at Sonny’s last week. I talked to him.”

“He’s twelve,” Sam says, “Dean, I’m not pretending to understand this whole thing with _Cas_.”

“Yep,” Dean agrees, “Sure as hell can’t accuse you of doing _that_ -” 

“ -but I get that it’s… hard, with him being so far away, but you do have friends in this state.”

“Will you quit it if I tell you I’m going for a drink with the guys from work on Friday?” Dean puts in, even though he’d had almost no intention of going. There’s the chance that Sam has a point, through, because he’s being going stir crazy this past week. Hanging out with someone who isn’t _Sam_ and therefore automatically has the ability to smash his damn feelings up without realising, might be a good idea. There’s no reason why Sam would know that crap like parents evening makes him feel validated and needed, or why Sam would see that the other side of his growing independence is Dean being totally redundant and, to be fair to the kid, Sam has been a lot more considerate about just about everything since Dean got back from his road trip. 

That doesn’t mean Dean still doesn’t feel a pang of _something_ every time he takes a breath and remembers that Sam is going to leave. A bad something. 

There’s a high chance that going drinking with Walt and Roy isn’t going to make him feel a lot better, but at least it’s a distraction of some kind.

Sam looks a little pacified, but not the least bit finished. Dean’s really not in the mood to have his life choices ripped into by a fucking seventeen year old (for the fourth time this week), but he’s recently lost the ability to be able to get Sam to shut the hell up.

Dean’s phone starts blaring out the Aerosmith song he set to be his Cas ringtone and he’s so damn relieved he probably wouldn’t have the words to express it.

“Duty calls,” Dean says, standing up with a shrug and taking the laptop with him, tucking his phone under his ear. “Hey, Cas.”

“I assume you have wifi now?”

“Yep,” Dean says, depositing the laptop and the rest of the bills on his bed, before weaving his way back to the kitchen to grab himself a drink. Sam’s just getting his food out the microwave and shoots him his most disapproving look as Dean gets himself three beers off the bat, because it’s that kind of evening, but doesn’t bother commenting about it. “Good timing, Cas. How are you doing?”

“I miss you,” Cas says, voice like sandpaper, words even harsher, and it hurts because, damnit, he misses Cas so goddamn bad and he's so far away and there's nothing he can do about it. Not a damn thing.

“Cas,” Dean breathes, setting down his beers on his bedside table and pushing the laptop to one side, because it doesn’t feel like one of those conversations where he’ll be able to carry on wading his way through the rest of the bills, but more like one of _those_ conversations where he can’t focus on anything but Cas’ words on the other end of the line. Those talks where he winds up pressing the phone closer and closer to his ear, like that might do something about the massive fucking distance between here and goddamn Yale, where he’ll finish up with every muscle tense from the desire to reach out and _touch_ when he fucking can’t. “What are you,” He begins, then stops himself and slam his jaw shut and think. He’s been stewing over the question for the past week or so, debating whether it’s a good idea to ask, but right now he really, really needs a win. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

“I’m in illinois with Jimmy and Amelia,” Cas says and _damn_ , but that’s a blow. In Dean’s internal calender, he figured that’s when they’d managed to work out a way of seeing each other in person. When he could deliver that damn hug. As far as he’s aware, Cas hasn’t actually mentioned the whole ‘in contact’ thing to any of the Miltons’, but Dean’s pretty sure he would if it meant they could actually have a face-to-face conversation. He wasn’t expecting it to be for a long time, but he figured they’d get… something. 

“I,” Dean begins, “Well that's... what about Christmas?”

“Damnit,” Cas mutters, “Anna is hosting.”

“In freaking California?”

“Yes,” Cas says, the word flooded with disappointment and frustration that makes Dean want to punch a hole in the goddamn wall, “This was all decided a long time ago, Dean.”

“Illinois is drivable,” Dean says, mouth dry, “It's what, five hours?”

“Dean,” Cas says, “Pointac is less than two hours from Chicago. It would be more like seven.”

Dean’s pretty sure that he could drive Cas version of seven hours in six which isn’t a _short_ drive, but it’s something, and it’s more of a something that not seeing Cas at all and right now, that’s just - 

He needs a win or he’s going to lose his goddamn mind.

“I could make that work. Not ideal, maybe, but I could - it’s doable.”

“I’m there for two nights,” Cas says, “Over Thanksgiving. Dean, your brother -”

“I know, dammit,” Dean says, grip tight on his beer, “Just let me have my fucking denial here, Cas.”

“You’re having a bad day too.”

“No I’m not,” Dean snaps, even though that’s unreasonable and shitty of him, but he _feels_ unreasonable and shitty, and he doesn’t want to play nice right now. He wants to hit something. He wants to _go_ somewhere. Do something about the fact that he feels like he’s crawling out of his damn skin every time he thinks so hard. “Are we being crazy here, Cas?”

“I don’t want to get into this right now,” Cas says, voice a little closed off, “You make rash decisions when you’re irritable.” 

“Well you’re just goddamn charming,” Dean exhales, but it’s not like he doesn’t have a point. He takes a swig of his beer and tries to think himself into not being such an asshole. “Okay. Tell me something I missed during our hiatus.” 

“Our _hiatus_ ,” Cas repeats, “I like that. It’s fitting.”

“Yep. I’m a regular genius,”

“I’ve been trying to tell you that for a long time,” Cas says, “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Dean says, then catches himself, because Cas has been waiting for an opening to throw another apology in his face and he’s always been pretty shitting with timings, “Nothing serious. Tell me about that hellish date with your stalker.”

“That’s disingenuous,” Castiel says, “She’s only followed me around twice.” Dean smirks into his beer and shuts his eyes. “And she hasn’t bothered me since I agreed with her ascertain that I’m in love with Meg to make her leave me alone.”

“She thinks - you and _Meg_ , huh?” Dean asks, his mind sticking on the thought and rejecting it off the bat because _no_ fucking way. Even if they weren’t doing whatever the hell it is that they’re doing, Cas deserves something… better. Someone who isn’t treading water trying not to drown; not _Meg_. Not Meg, who he actually stuck around for, even when she didn’t deserve it. “I - are you?”

“I find the fact that you are even asking me that question highly worrying, Dean.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Dean says, “You never got round to telling me the deal with Meg in the first place, so what the hell do I know?”

“You know _me_.”

“Do I?” Dean asks, frowning at dumbass beer. 

“Dean,” Cas asks, voice on the cusp of being a warning without any real commitment. Dean can be pretty certain that this wasn’t the conversation Cas had been looking forward to after his crappy day. 

“I - damnit. I’m being a first class douchebag,” Dean says, “You know what I want? You know what I _really_ freaking want?”

“What?” Cas asks and - _fuck his voice_ and fuck this whole stupid ass, shitty situation.

“A goddamn _hug_ ,” Dean exhales.

Cas doesn’t say anything for a few long moments, where Dean can hear him breathing from over a thousand, crappy miles away.

“I didn’t anticipate this being this hard,” Cas says, carefully, his words arranged just so.

“I figured,” Dean says, draining the last of his first beer, “I did.” 

They don’t stay a whole lot else, but they stay on the line to each other for another thirty minutes.

*

Watching Walt strike out will never not be funny, and he's reliably good at it. He goes in too hard, too early, with women that were probably never going to be interested in the first place, but Dean’s never felt inclined to give him anything other than perfunctory advice and a mocking comment. He’s not especially invested in Walk picking up chicks; as much as he guesses Walt and Roy are some of his only friends left in Kansas, Dean's not all that sure that he actually likes either of them. He's sure as shit never gone to them with a goddamn problem and they know about the same amount of information that he'd give up on a first date (which, honestly, is the only kind of date he's been on for about a year, and calling it _that_ is a stretch), but they're still the only people's he's got that aren't family, even if most of his family aren’t blood.

Still, watching Walt make himself look like a total assholes is entertaining. And, hell, it's not like he doesn't like getting to be uncomplicated and for his life to be, briefly, boiled down into something simple. It’s some definition of fun and it keeps Sam off his back about ‘socialising’ so it sort of counts as a win.

“I’ll get the next round,” Walt declares, slamming his hands down on their table and fumbling with his wallet. He got the last three rounds, but Walt doesn’t have a seventeen year old dependent, so Dean’s not gonna start getting all honourable it now. It’s his own damn fault for not being able to handle his liquor.

“Your friend is really drunk.” The girl whose friend is about five minutes away from rejecting Walt says, leaning towards him to make himself heard. They did introductions when Walt somehow talked them into joining their table thirty minutes ago, but Dean’s been pretty successfully avoiding the conversation altogether. 

His bad mood hasn’t shifted a whole lot since Wednesday. He told Sam he’d go out, so he went out, and he’s drank enough beer that Sam will probably give him a hard time anyway. He doesn’t get to win in this scenario, but at least he can drink enough to wash away the total crap fest this week has been. 

“Yep,” Dean agrees, “Drunk and buying me a beer. I can deal with that.”

She laughs. The kind of laugh that’s a little too bright for it to be spontaneous, which would probably be good news for Dean if he’d run into her a month ago. Now, Dean just takes another swig of his beer and pulls out his phone.

Nothing from Cas, which isn’t surprising. Last contact they had, Cas was barricading himself in the library with a stack of energy drinks and a helluva lot of sugar, riding it out until his paper on something so far out of Dean’s understanding he stopped listening part way through the explanation is finished. Metaphysics, or something. He _figured_ the guy would be out of action till around noon tomorrow morning.

“Kid,” Walt says, setting another beer down in front of him, “Emma, -”

“- Emily,” She corrects, rolling her eyes. 

“And _Sophia_ ,” Walt finishes, putting the final beer down next to the brunette before pulling her into a conversation about the benefits of working ‘with his hands’ rather than getting a college education, or some other crap that no one’s buying. 

“And what’s your story, Dean?” The other girl, _Emily_ apparently, asks, twisting her whole body in her seat to look at him. She’s interested. Dean’s kind of an expert at picking up one night stands at this point in his life; it suits his skill at being perfunctorily, surface level charming in the way that he can’t maintain alongside a relationship with any actual depth, because then all his freaking issues start to show. He can read basic body language though, unlike Walt, and he can tell that if he picked the right words out right now he could probably talk her into bed, or at least get her number. The thing is, all he actually wants to do is ask Cas how his damn essay is going, because he is totally, totally fucked in the head.

And maybe, just possibly, drunk.

“Sorry, Sweetheart, I'm uh,” Dean pauses, because _what is he_ , exactly? He's not in a relationship. He made that pretty damn clear. He's not even sure if he thinks that's possible, but it - he's interested in Cas, definitely, on an academic level where he's trying to work out what the fuck they can make work - and he's interested in him physically, too, which definitely _can't_ happen because of distant alone, without the complicated, barbed romantic interest mixed in there too. The result is he's frustrated and feels lonelier than he ever used to when he was actually alone, with brief moments of relief whenever Cas calls or texts. They never talked about it explicitly, but he's not free to chat up some woman at a bar, because even in the confines of his own head, he can't. His own damn feelings are getting in the way. He's not interested. He's just… he can't even be bothered with it.

He settles on Lisa’s phrase in the end, because it worked for her. It apparently shed some light that made him make sense to her, so what the hell. 

“I'm... Still hung up on in my high school ex.”

“That’s,” Emily begins, glancing down at her beer, then blinking up at him through her damn eyelashes, “Actually really sweet.”

“Sweet?” Dean asks, turning to look at her with an eyebrow raised. “And that’s it. Stick a fork in me, I’m done. It’s official - I do not understand women.” 

“Hey, maybe that’s where you went wrong with your ex.”

Dean snorts and takes another swig of beer. He lost count of what number beer he’s on, but it’s enough that he can’t really be held responsible for the fact that he’s allowing himself to be dragged into this conversation. 

“ _That_ is a whole freaking saga,” Dean says, “And aint none of it’s as simple as that.”

“How long have you been split up?” Emily asks, tracing the top of her beer bottle with her index finger.

“Oh, we doing this? We throwing me a goddamn pity party?”

“Well,” Emily says, glancing towards Walt and her friends, “As fun as watching my best friend blow off your friend is…it’s not exactly my idea of a good time. Humour me.”

“Officially, three years.”

“Wow,” She says, “Okay, that’s about two and a half years more than I was expecting.”

“Still sweet?” Dean asks, as Walt slaps his hands on the table again and declares that he’s going to buy another round. Dean rolls his eyes and and drains his beer. He's got them lined up, at this point, with Walt so damn keen to show he's got money he might as well start throwing dollar bills.

“You said officially?”

“Right,” Dean says, setting his beer bottle down with a thunk, and why the fuck is he talking about this again? The whole reason Sam wanted him out was so he'd think about something else. Something not to do with Cas, or the one thousand three hundred mile chasm he just set up for his chest to be sucked into. Good times. “We were still, uh… seeing each other every few months for the year after we broke up, I visited about a month ago and now we’re freaking pen pals. So - it’s complicated. Long.”

“And you’re in love with her?”

“Uh, him,” Dean corrects, as Walt turns back up with a tray of multi-coloured shots that _smell_ like a hangover as it’s pressed into his hands. It tastes like sugared ass, but he winds up accepting a second shot anyway. It’s probably a mistake but right now he really doesn’t fucking care. He chases the taste down with half of his beer before grimacing in Walt’s direction. “The hell did I just swallow, Walt?”

“Who the fuck knows, Kid,” Walt throws back, “Who’s your friend?”

“You’ve already met, asshat,” Dean says, loudly, “ _Anyway_ , the take away point is, I aint sweet, I’m pathetic, and I’m not available.”

“Not available _emotionally_ , or not available at all - because, you know, I could take emotionally unavailable.” 

“This goddamn pining is doing it for you?”

“It’s more the package, rather than the pining per say,” Emily says, “Basically, you’re _crazy_ hot.” 

“Now that language, I understand,” Dean throws back, “But, no dice.”

“You are… into women too, right?”

“Right,” Dean says, “Just not _right now_.”

“Hey, I volunteer as rebound,” Emily says, raising her hand and, yeah, she’s definitely drunker than when they started having the conversation, and he’s not exactly _sober_ either, and the whole thing is suddenly pretty freaking hilarious. 

“Problem is, darlin’ that assumes I wanna get over him,” Dean says, once he’s managed to stop laughing, “And _that_ is where we run into the issue.”

“Damn, Dean, you _are_ pathetic.” 

“Hey there, I thought we’d settled on sweet,” Dean counters, scanning the room, “Ah, fuck Roy.”

“Whose Roy?”

“That drunk douchebag by the bar and our designated driver. Damnit.”

“Guess you’re pretty much stuck here, huh?” Emily says, slamming the table, “I think it might be my round.” 

“Okay then,” Dean says, digging out his phone again and, nope. Cas is still studying. 

“How the hell you do that kid?” Walt says, sliding over to gawp at him.

“I’m adorable,” Dean says, pocketing his phone again, “Tell her you’re hung up on a dude you used to date three years ago - I’m freakin’ killing it with that line tonight.”

“That _Cas_ you’ve been rabbiting on to lately?”

“You’re just working’ this out now?” Dean says, raising an eyebrow, “Wow, buddy, you’re a real genius type.” 

“Cut your lip, kid.” 

“Bite me,” Dean throws back , and necks the last of his bottle of beer. “Roy’s screwed us.”

“Uh huh, just about figures,” Walt says, gaze settling on a red head three bar stools down from Roy. “You reckon she’s into mechanics?”

“That depends, you talking about _you_ Mechanic, or me, mechanic, cause I don’t fancy your luck.”

“Eat shit, kiddo. I’m gonna go buy her a drink.”

“Dude, you’re gonna be bankrupt by last orders,” Dean says, “l’ll call us a freaking cab. You grab Roy, try and make sure he’s not gonna chuck up.”

“Past your bedtime, Kid?” Walt says, standing up and heading over to the redhead, like the total asswipe he is.

“Here,” Emily says, turning back up with two beers and two shots of something that looks a lot like tequila.

“Well, what the hell?” Dean asks, and knocks it back before she can go back to the bar to get the lime or the salt.

The tequila, as it turns out, is definitely a bad idea. 

*

The bar is hot, loud, and the girl - the one who thinks it’s sweet that he’s a dumbass who’s probably never gonna get over freaking Cas - is trying to give him her number, even though Dean’s pretty sure he made himself clear in that regard. He figured that they were just , just hanging out, given her friend took off with one of the bartenders and Roy and Walt are assholes, but then she’s trying to slip him her her freaking number and -

It’s colder outside.

A couple of people are smoking and they smell fucking amazing and Dean’s not all that sure why he gave up smoking in the first place. Not that he ever really committed to it - he couldn’t, because he didn’t have the money, and, right, that’s why he stopped. Money, money, money. And Sam. Sam hates it and and _Sam_ , God bless Sam, who text him half an hour ago to ask what time he was going to be home.

It takes a little work to make his fingers successfully type out the fact that Roy is a crappy designated driver, but he manages it after a couple of attempts, and Sam calls him about twenty seconds after he hits send to ask in curt, clearly pissed off tone, which bar they’re at. He tells him to stay where he is then hangs up.

Staying where he is is fine. The air is a helluvalot fresher outside, cigarettes be damned, and it’s helping to clear his head.

He’s still really goddamn drunk, though. Drunk enough that calling Cas to pay him back for their last drunk dialing situation seems like the best idea he’s had all night, till he winds up rambling some bull crap to Cas’ voicemail for however long until he hangs up.

Sam shows up in his car a little after Dean’s confiscated his phone from himself, by zipping it into the pocket of his leather jacket. Sam is silent and every inch the disappointed parent as he drives them both home, and Dean’s got no idea how the hell this evening got so crappy, but -

But he knows what Sam is thinking. That _this_ is why he had to get himself emancipated for any of this to work, because Ellen would never have let this happen. This exact clusterfuck of circumstance would _never_ have been allowed to happen. He'd be back at Sonny's in thirty seconds flat.

“You're going to feel like shit in the morning.” 

“Don't feel all that hot right now either, Sammy,” Dean says, after Sam's parked up and is irritably waiting for him to get his limbs into motion. He's really, really drunk and - fuck. Dean does not know how the hell this happened.

“Whatever, jerk, just - drink some water.”

“Roger that,” Dean mutters, a little too late after, because he's concentrating on the stairs up to their apartment. Sam forces a glass of water on him with a bitchface that he definitely deserves because, goddamnit, Sam is seventeen. He shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't have to deal with this. 

He drinks another two glasses of water in the kitchen before he gives it up as a bad job. It's all - when he closes his eyes the world is spinning and he needs to be vertical and _less drunk_ but the only route to that he knows is sleeping it off.

He just about managed to plug in his phone and only spills a little of the glass of water he bought with him on his bedside table , so it could all be so much worse.

Castiel has text him. _That_ causes a swoop of something in his stomach, before reality kicks in and he registers that - _fuck_ \- he called Cas. 

_You sound exceptionally inebriated, Dean._ Cas has typed out and sent. Then, a few minutes later, _I hope you're enjoying your evening. Get home safe._

Damnit, that shouldn’t be enough to make him happy.

_Waayy too much tequila, dude_ Dean types out, propping himself up with another pillow as he grins at his phone, the world swimming a little bit.

_Any tequila is too much._

_Preach,_ Dean types, _I miss you. A lot._

He’s braver when he’s wasted, apparently. 

_I miss you too, Dean. Sleep well._

_Passing out is kind of like sleeping well, right? Study well._

Cas sends him one of those emojis with the heart eyes and it’s so dorky and freaking _adorable_ that Dean winds up shaking his head and beaming at his phone until he has to call time on his attempt at sobriety and sleep whatever this funk that’s had him captured off. 

He's done feeling crappy and insecure about this. He's done wallowing. He's done with having half his barriers up with the rest wide open. Being in contact with Cas is supposed to make him happy so, screw it, but he is going to be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter really wasn't supposed to be this angsty, but I think my bad mood may have infected Dean Winchester. Whoops. There was definitely supposed to be a like... resolution to this temporary angst-fest, but then it got long so... yep. Here we go.


	8. Chapter 8

At _some point_ in the middle of the night, he woke up with his stomach rolling and somehow managed to get to the bathroom before the sugary sweet shots, the beer and the tequila came back up, and he gave up on the concept of being horizontal a little after that. It feels like whole days have passed since he parked himself on the bathroom floor and concentrated every inch of his attention on not moving his head, but in all honesty he has no idea what the time is.

Holy _fuck_ , he feels like crap. On the hangover scale, it scores an 8.0 and he’s pretty sure he’s not moving any time soon. It’s been at least half an hour since he last threw up, but that’s only because there’s nothing left in him but pain and misery. 

Sam barges his way into the bathroom and looking up at him sends another wave of nausea rolling through him. 

“Cas is calling you,” Sam says, brandishing Dean’s phone in his direction, which is currently blaring out what he vaguely recognises as his ringtone. That means it’s morning, then. After ten AM most likely. He must slept more than he thought before he woke up, or that he's slept some propped up on his elbows against the toilet seat.

“What?”

“Castiel,” Sam says, “Is _ringing_ you, and it’s loud.”

“Your _face_ is loud, Sammy,” Dean mutters, bringing his fingers to his head to press into the spot above his eye where it feels like someone stabbed him with some kind of blunt instrument. “Not feeling particularly chatty right now.”

“He’s called twice,” Sam says, “And I need to pee.”

“Sammy,”

“You - you know what,” Sam says, bitchface in place and hitting _answer_ , which at least stops it screeching out motorhead, “Hey Cas, Dean’s busy right now -”

“ - I, damnit,” Dean says, forcing himself to his feet and snatching his phone out of his hands, “Cas, hey.”

“Bathroom, Dean, out.”

“Could you _lower the volume_ Sam, in the name of all that is holy,” Dean bites out, getting just beyond the scope of the door before Sam slams the door, loudly, in his face. 

Goddamnit. “Cas,” Dean exhales, crossing their apartment to get to the kitchen. Food aint gonna happen for a long time, but _water_ is going to have to happen.

“You sound terrible.”

“Yeah, well, I feel about six thousand times worse than I sound, buddy,” Dean says, pouring himself a glass of water and shutting his eyes, “Not sure I got a whole lot of conversation in me.” 

“I assumed that would be the case,” Cas says, voice tilted in affection, “You helped me through my last hangover.”

“So this is a quid pro quo situation, huh?” Dean asks.

“I won’t be able to attend in person,” Cas continues, “But I prescribe reality television and rehydration, followed by a course of junk food and coffee.” 

“I - yeah, I am so far away from being able to eat, yet.”

“It happens,” Cas says, voice soft, “Is your brother giving you a hard time?”

“Just being a teenager,” Dean says, refilling his glass and heading to the couch. His head throbs just to remind him what a total _asshole_ Dean is for letting his kid brother be the one to drag his ass home. Goddamnit. He needs to be a better human.“You get your assignment in okay?”

“Yes, I finished just after you called me.”

“Damnit,” Dean says, “Any chance you wanna delete whatever I said in that message and pretend it never happened?”

“None at all,” Cas says and he sounds _happy_ to talk to Dean, which is a little difficult to digest when he feels this much like a piece of crap. He should’ve -- he should’ve known better than to go drinking with Walt and Roy. He should have _known_ that this would happen, because it’s happened at least four times before. Maybe Sam’s never had to drive to pick him up from a goddamn bar, but it’s not the first morning after the night before. Cas shouldn’t feel good about nursing Dean through his hangover from so far away. He shouldn’t _want_ to do this.

“I’m going to work,” Sam bites out, before he shuts the door with force.

Dean leans back against the sofa and exhales. 

“Cas, you gotta have something better to do with your day than listen to me feel sorry for myself.”

“A wise man once told me, there’s nothing like a hangover to churn up some self hatred.”

“No kidding,” Dean mutters, “Cas, I suck right now. Actually, I’ve sucked all fucking week, which is probably why last night happened in the first place.”

“Dean, I’m not seeking an explanation, I just wanted to see if you were okay,” Cas says, “Now, turn on the television, because the reality TV segment of this hangover is beginning.”

“Fuck, I could listen to your voice forever,” Dean says, before his brain kicks in to stop himself. He doesn’t really care that much right now, though, because his head’s pounding and his little brother thinks he’s a piece of crap.

“I think I would end up with an exceptionally dry throat, but I can certainly schedule in today.”

“Sounds really really good,” Dean says, wedging his phone under his ear as he reaches for the TV remote. “You sure you got nothing else you need to do?”

“Nothing of import,” Cas returns, voice rich and deep.

There’s a marathon of some traffic cop show on that carries them through until Dean feels alive enough to eat.

*

“Coffee is life,” Dean mutters, just after he’s filled his second cup up, black and strong. He'd left Cas on speaker as he trudged across the kitchen to find the coffee, and stops short before he picks it up again, “Holy fuck, Cas, did you know we've been talking for nearly four hours?”

“There was five episodes of traffic cops, Miami, Dean.”

“I- yeah, okay, that makes sense, but…” Dean struggles to conjure up something the explain his issues with that that doesn't sound moronic, but he can't think of anything except blurting you _you're not my boyfriend_ again because... Because nearly four hours on a single freaking call just because Dean's hungover and feeling sorry for himself is downright domestic. It's serious. It's…it’s a long time to watch TV from different places. “Cas, I've had shorter nights sleep than this conversation. I've had whole relationships shorter than this conversation. Sam's gotta be nearly done with his shift, by now.”

“Dean, I can hear the cogs turning in your head from here. What are you thinking?”

“That we need to talk,” Dean says, feeling a little like he’s got a bookcase resting on his chest. “Actually _talk_ , not just say stuff because neither of us wants this conversation to end.”

“And you want to do this now?” Cas asks, not unkindly.

“Maybe,” Dean says, helplessly, grip tightening on his coffee, “We've talked for nearly four hours and you haven't told me a single thing that's going on in your head, except what you think about texting and driving. It's...You gotta admit this is weird as hell.”

“What exactly are you referring to?”

“Us, Cas. You babying me through my hangover from over a thousand miles away, when we haven't even touched on that crap that we need to talk about. And I know you said you weren't looking for an explanation but… But gotta tell you, Cas, it’s not unrelated. I didn’t drink my weight in beer because I was feeling _good_ about all this.I’m pretty sure this, us, whatever is we’re doing here, has been making me feel worse this past week.”

“Dean,”

“Not, not because of _you_ ,” Dean says, before Cas can jump in with any shitty conclusions, “Not really. Talking to you is… it’s great, Cas, it’s awesome, but whenever you’re _not_ on the other end of the line I just… you are so goddamn far away, and I…I just _miss you_.” Dean finishes. It’s a little easier than it had felt to drag out that kind of sentiment into the light than yesterday, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. It just means his hangover has taken out some of his usual instincts.

“That’s not a bad thing,” Cas says, voice steady, “I would… I would be disappointed if you didn’t.”

“Yeah,” Dean acknowledges, “But it’s more than that, Cas. I don’t know how to explain this to you.”

“Before _right now_ , you haven’t tried.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, closing his eyes, “That’s on me. That’s my fault.”

“Is the blame game really necessary?”

“You started it,” Dean counters, “Cas, I was…. There was this girl, last night. I was blowing her off, telling her that I was still hung up on you and that we had this whole thing going on, except apparently that made me ‘sweet’, or whatever. And… we wound up talking. My ride home fucked off because Walt’s a goddamn charmer and there was all this freaking tequila -”

“Dean,” Cas interjects, voice very even, “What are you saying?”

“Woah. Not _that_ ,” Dean says, his pulse suddenly speeding up, “I just heard that how you would have heard it. Damnit, Cas, that’s not… I wouldn’t just drop that into a goddamn conversation.”

“Your issue is the way that hypothetical information was relayed?” Cas asks, from all the way in fucking _Connecticut_ , his voice carefully arranged, but for once Dean can see right through it, and this time it pisses him off. 

“No,” Dean says, “That’s not my issue. I just _told_ you I was blowing the girl off because we’re doing… this. I just _said_ , Cas. What kind of asshole do you think I am?”

“The kind of who made it very clear that there are no strings attached to our regular conversations,” Cas says, voice pointed, “Whether there are any obligations involved on either sides hasn’t been discussed.” 

“Have _you_ been sleeping around?”

“I don’t sleep around, period, Dean.”

“Right,” Dean says, “But I’m cheap white trash. I get it.”

“There was no implication about _you_ in that sentence, at all,” Cas says, his words catching heat, “Don’t read subtext into my words because you’ve decided you want to pick a fight. I have said nothing about your sex life at all.”

“Fine,” Dean says, “But I _do_ sleep around, Cas, because whatever conceptions you have about my life going good right now, that’s bull. I’ve got some money in the bank, but Sam’s halfway out the damn door, I’ve got no _plan_ , no friends, no freaking life. I drink too much and I hang out at my ex-Principle and my ex-foster carer because they’re the only people in my life worth giving my time of day too. I drink too much and I’m too invested in my brother and when it all _sucks_ , I do go to some bar and see if anyone’s interested to make everything less shitty because I’m lonely, Cas, except now you’re calling me and I don’t - I’m not gonna do that - but every time you hang up the phone I feel more damn _alone_ and it all feels even more pointless, because you’re so fucking far away, and I _miss you_.” All the breath rushes out of his lungs all at once, sharp and painful, and it’s a moment before he can speak again. “I’m not trying to pick a fight,” Dean continues, voice level again, “I just… I just wanted you to get why I’ve been a total douchebag this week. This whole goddamn situation sucks, but I don’t wanna do _that_ anymore. I wanna be honest with you, about all of it, ‘cause it ain’t like I’m not still a hot mess. You should know that before you get sucked in again.” 

“You say that like I'm not already utterly sucked in.”

Damnit.

“You shouldn't be,” Dean says, grip tightening on his coffee as heads back to his bedroom. He’s been a shitty enough human this week that he’s not actually sure which shift Sam is working or whether he’s at his internship today or tomorrow, but he doesn’t want to face his brother’s wrath right now. 

“Dean,” Cas says, his voice soft, “When you are here at Yale, I implied you were hedonistic. That's an unjust assessment of your character -- you do derive joy from the indulgences your life allows you - from good food and good sex - but your real, deep seated joy is routed in the people that you commit yourself too. It's a remarkable thing, Dean, to love your brother like you do. For you to be content to accept your happiness from good pie, good coffee, good water pressure in a shower, as long as your brothers long term goals are assured. You are remarkable, Dean, as you always have been. I am most unwaveringly sucked in. I miss you too.”

Dean’s breath gets clogged up in his throat along with all the crap he finds difficult to say on any given day. 

“I knew all of those things, anyway,” Cas says, “You say a great deal without words.”

“Thought that was a problem for you. Reading between the lines.”

“Not as such,” Cas says, “Dean, my father - whether knowingly or unknowingly - used to manipulate the things I said and did to prove his own hypothesis about me. It's bad science and as a physicist he should know better, but when I am insecure I… I find it difficult to trust my own judgement. I start to worry that I'm being manipulated, but … I like to think I know you well, Dean.”

“You do,” Dean says, “As much as anyone.”

“I'm not expecting you to have your whole life together, Dean. I'm hardly an advert for stability, or you wouldn’t have driven to Yale in the first place.” 

“But… I hurt you, back then.”

“It's not like I didn't return the favour.”

“Maybe,” Dean says, throat thick with something. “Cas, what the hell are we doing? Are we just kidding ourselves here?”

“I don’t know,” Cas says, “But… I’m having the best Saturday I’ve had for a very long time.” That feels like a puncture to the chest, maybe in a good way. At this point in the game, it’s difficult to work out. “Dean, I want to say my piece too.”

“Man, I really like _not_ being pissed at you and every freaking time you try and apologise I wanna put my fist through a wall, so - no thanks.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“Why do _you_ get to decide that?” 

“I was miserable and stupid, Dean.” 

“You weren't handling things well. I’ve heard that line.”

“I wasn’t handling _anything_ , at all, Dean,” Cas says, “I isolated myself, I stopped speaking to people, I forgot to call Hester to the point that she tried to contact the university directly. I made her cry, Dean, it was awful. I internalised everything until I believed that I was unlovable and useless. I was _lost_.”

“You,” Dean begins, his heart clenching, because he doesn’t know what to _do_ with that. He wants to defend the fact that none of that was his fault at the same time that he wants to apologise, and he wants to yell _no one cares if you’re broken_ even though it’s not even a little bit true, until Cas realises how much it hurt to be on the other side of all of it that year. He’s too mad at him to want to hear it and too fucking _gone_ on him for it not to feel like his chest is being stretched thin. “You’re not,” Dean starts, except he wants to say ‘unlovable’ but that’s too close to… to the other thing, and he can’t do that, “You’re not either of those things.”

“I know that now,” Cas says, “But… my first therapist was right, Dean, I had chronic low self esteem and believed that what I felt was… irrelevant. We’d just broken up and I was so far away from anyone who knew me.”

“You - you _said_ that I was right to end things. That summer after. You said you agreed with me.”

“You were,” Cas says, “I’m not saying this is your fault, Dean.”

“It sure as hell sounds like it’s my fault.”

“No,” Cas says, “I used our relationship as a reason to justify my worth - that I meant something to you, so that must mean I was worth something. That wasn't your fault. That wasn't your responsibility.” 

“It,” Dean begins, swallows, “I should have done better.”

“Perhaps,” Cas says, “But Dean, I was floored by my father leaving, more than our break up. You can understand that.”

“Sure, I can write the book on that.”

“I put off with dealing with both until it ambushed me and I _drowned_. I had to rebuild everything and at the same time I - I missed you and I loved you and I felt betrayed by you. My friends said that you… depended on me for too much and that had never occured to me before. I was angry at my father for everything _he’d_ done and some of it felt the same as your actions, and I’d internalised all of it so much that I… I _fucked up_ , Dean. I didn’t mean to leave you with that damnable key, but I… I panicked. I was _weak_ and I thought that I would be sucked into your orbit and then I wouldn’t be able to work out what was true anymore. And then all I wanted to do was apologise to you, but I… you were looking at me and - “

“ - and we wound up fooling around. Yeah, I remember. Don’t remember this apology, though. What I remember is you getting defensive and yelling at me that our whole fucking relationship screwed you up. And you know what, Cas, I wasn’t even _pissed_ at you about that, because I deserved it. I deserved you chewing me out for some of the crap I pulled and, hey, at least that was straight up and honest. Was the first time in about a goddamn year that I’d known what was going on in your head, but what I don’t _get_ and what I can't forgive for a hot minute is you acting like all that crap was ironed out and then… And then just leaving, without a single word. You fucking ditched me via Gabriel, Cas, by my best friend. You just _left_ without a fucking text message, right when I was about to forgive myself for us.”

“Dean,” Cas says, raw, deep, the voice that shakes his fucking bone marrow, because he's a dumb fuck whose so gone on Castiel that this is inevitable. “I thought that I was in control of all of it. I- I'd been doing better, Dean. I had friends. Meg was instrumental in helping resemble my sense of identity, but there was Hannah and Kelly too. I contacted my brother and we spoke on the phone about my father and… I was arrogant. I thought that I was strong enough to handle speaking to you again. I thought that we could have closure, Dean, and then you were exceptional, with your presence and the way you looked at me and the way you speak about your brother. You apologised.”

“Because I was _sorry_ ,” Dean says, “Then only reason I didn’t before was because it felt like it would do more harm than good, but… Cas, I thought we were okay. I thought we were _okay_.” 

Cas is silent for a few beats.

“I- for a while I held this belief that you weren't _good_ because you weren't good for me, and then I believed that you were good, Dean, beyond everything, but that we weren't good for each other, and I accepted that. As long as you were happy… And then you apologised to me and when you were looking at me it felt like it might work. That you might care about me despite it all. You said we should be friends but… We will never be friends Dean. We are more and less than that. We are not friends. We're not capable of being friends, and I got home from our coffee and I realized that all my arrogance in believing I had things under control was unfounded and completely wrong, because… We would have slept together again, Dean. I would have kissed you. I would have gotten ‘sucked In’ and … And I knew that I had been right about you, Dean, that you were frustrating and beautiful, that I loved you, that I would let you depend on me for anything, that I would give you whatever you asked. I was just breaking out of that loyalty to my father and it felt - it felt the same. I logically knew that you were _right_ that we aren't able to have a long distance relationship, but I also knew that I would agree to coffee and then dinner and then one of us would give in and…. And come the end of the summer I would be peeling my pulverized heart off your doormat. I’d spent months _detesting_ being in love with you, and then… I didn’t anymore. It felt like I was losing control of myself again and I panicked.” 

“You _left_.”

“Yes,” Cas says, “I called Meg and she told me that I needed to get out of there before everything I had spent months rebuilding slipped away from me and I… it sounded so logical, Dean, to protect _my_ wellbeing. I didn’t want to be _back_ in that place.”

“Huh,” Dean says, windpipe tight, “It sounds a lot like you don’t regret it.”

“I,” Cas begins, “I am not convinced that she was wrong, but I regret it anyway.”

Dean has absolutely no idea what the fuck he’s supposed to do with that. 

“I was always going to call you. It seemed like I good idea to wait until I was on a different continent so that you didn’t change my mind.”

“I wouldn’t’ve fought you on that. If it was best for _you_ , then I wouldn’t… wouldn’t have pushed.”

“I am very easy when it comes to you. You wouldn’t have had to do anything at all,” Cas says, voice sad, soft, the kind of intimate that makes his head real, “Gabriel… he didn’t know I hadn’t told you I was leaving. Hester told me that he staunchly defended my honour but he was exceptionally angry at me. I’ve never experienced him to be so serious about anything and I hope never to again. He… I think he decided that I had put him in a position where it was impossible for him to still be friends with you because of his loyalty to me and… and I am sorry, Dean, I am _sorry_.”

“I hear you,” Dean says, mouth dry, chest pounding, “But the thing is, Cas, in that meeting I had with Ellen before I met you for coffee, they told me Sam couldn’t stay with me at weekends anymore, and a week after you and Gabriel dumped me in the same goddamn conversation, I found out my Dad was dead, and I… I nearly didn’t get through it, so I can’t forgive you for that. I can’t do it, so you baring your fucking soul is futile, because I can’t. That summer nearly killed me. I can’t forgive you. Not for that.”

“Dean,” Cas says, voice wrecked and raw enough for it to hurt a helluva lot more than his hangover, “What do you want from me?”

“I want,” Dean begins, then stops and clenches his jaw, “I want us to be really fucking clear, here. That we’re not seeing other people until we’ve worked out whatever the hell it is we’re doing. That I’m not interested in anyone else. Not at all.” 

“January,” Cas says, which is a weird ass response, but Dean’s not really sure what he was expecting, “There's two weeks after the new year when I'm not expecting to have any deadlines. I want to see you.”

“I can do that,” Dean breathes, “January. Happy fucking birthday, me. We should book a goddamn hotel some place. And we could just, talk. Order room service. Make out.”

“Have sex?”

“You bet it, Sunshine. You know how long it's been since I got laid?”

“I expect that I do,” Cas says, smile seeping into his voice, “January.”

“You can talk to Sam about colleges,” Dean says, letting himself sink into the conversation.

“Yes,” Cas says, “I think I need to see this version of your brother that’s taller than you before I can believe it.”

“Oh, yeah, you and Sam definitely need to re-bond. Can bring you round to Bobby’s for Sunday dinner, too. Show you the sweet ass car he bought me. She should be a little more together then.”

“Hester would insist on feeding you as well, Dean, you and Sam.”

“Shit, yeah,” Dean smiles, “Hester. Damn, I forgot how much I love that woman. Oh, there’s a freaking _sweet_ burger restaurant that opened up about a year ago. Their loaded fries are a goddamn dream. Date night.”

“I think Gabriel mentioned it.”

“Right, they sell a fuck-tonne of sugar too,” Dean says, “So it figures it’s right up his alley. You should meet Ellen officially, too, now her and Bobby are pretty much shacked up.”

“I would like that,”

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, “January. Okay.”

“Okay.”

“It’s just… thing is, Cas, it’s October right now,” Dean says, chest tightening. He last saw Cas a month ago and he’s already fucked up in the head: stewing in _longing_ and sexual frustration from talking to him all the time, mixed in with straight up regular frustration and old hurts. January is… a long way away. 

“I know, Dean,” Cas says and… and _fuck_ , fuck all of it. Fuck every single thing about this. “I am not interested in anyone else either. I’m not sure I really ever have been.” 

“I,” Dean begins, swallowing, “Me neither.”

It’s probably the best hangover of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that I haven't responded to all your comments yet! I'm having a weird mental health blip which totally caught me off guard, because I've been all goooood for about six years and then * surprise* but I will get to them this week.
> 
> And here be a chapter that's all one single conversation.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean calls out his usual ‘hey’ as he slams the door of their apartment shut behind him and is halfway to the kitchen before he stalls, stops, and turns around to take in his little brother, _not_ alone. Frantically straightening his shirt on the sofa. Freaking _Sarah_ scrambling to put physical distance between them, with that look that only teenagers get when they’re caught in the middle of a round of serious necking.

Last time he checked, Sam and Sarah broke up for some bullshit sensible reason about ‘concentrating on senior year’ and ‘focusing on going to college’ (that Dean can’t even argue with, really, because _yeah_ , that probably would have been a good idea for him, too) so Dean almost feels like he should be pissed off that he hasn’t been updated, but Sam looking that flustered is way too fucking hilarious for that.

“Dean,” Sam says, flushing, “We were just, uh…”

“Hey Sarah,” Dean says, lifting a hand in a wave, smirking. Sarah turns a darker shade of pink and needlessly straightens her jumper. “How’s the academics going?”

“Good, thanks,” Sarah says, looking a little bit like she’s dead inside. Dean’s smile widens a little as his gaze shifts back to Sam. Sam’s attempting a bitchface but looks too embarrassed to pull it off and this is really, really improving Dean’s crappy day. 

“I thought you were going straight to Bobby’s to work on your car.” Sam says.

“Forgot my wrench,”

“Bobby has wrenches,”

“Good point,” Dean says, still deeply amused, smile broadening every time Sam tried to regain his composure. “So, uh…. I'm gonna shower the stench of douchebag clients off me, then head back out. You let me know if you two need anything. There's pizza money in the kitchen, soda in the fridge, condoms in my bedroom.”

Sam flushes a deeper shade of red and throws a pillow at him.

Dean throws it straight back at him and gives Sarah a salute before disappearing into the bathroom feeling downright cheerful. He thumbs out a message to Cas before he gets in the shower, and steps out to Cas reminding him of three separate occasions where they were caught making out with a plea on Sam’s behalf to be nice. 

Sam’s bedroom door is shut by the time he’s dried off, which probably figures, even if it kicks off a weird train of thought about giving Sam ‘the talk’ which carries him all the way to Bobby’s place. He knocks on Bobby’s door as usual to let him know he’s here and Bobby brings out a beer and a soda and sits with him in the garage while he works on the car.

He asks about Sam, but Dean’s not all that sure what there is to tell him, except that Sam’s been pissed at him ever since that night with the bar, and not a damn thing Dean’s done has helped him to defrost. Dean’s stopped riding Sam’s ass about working too many hours. He’s signed up to a couple of evening classes to sweeten him up but, no dice. Nothing. Sam’s _pissed_ and there doesn’t feel like a lot he can do but ride it out. In the end, Bobby drops the whole freaking thing and just watches him work on the car, interjecting affectionate insults every so often.

Bobby insists on feeding him, too.

He gets back home a little after nine and is expecting to be greeted with a closed door, but Sam’s relocated back to the sofa - alone - with a text book propper up on his gigantor legs, news blaring on in the background. 

“Hey,” Dean says, pausing in the doorway, because… because Sam not hauling himself up in his room is as much as an invitation to _talk_ as anything he’s gotten for the past three weeks. “You eaten?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, gaze fixed a little too deliberately on the headlines, “You eat at Bobby’s?”

“Uhuh,” Dean says, waiting him out, “Anything you wanna talk about, Sam?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Dean says, rolling his eyes and shrugging off his jacket. “Whatever you want. Night, Sammy.”

“Except, uh,” Sam says, pausing to turn off the TV, “I think I’m back together with Sarah.”

“You think, huh?” Dean asks, only half smirking, “Kind of feels like something you should know.”

“Yeah, like you can talk,” Sam scoffs, shutting his textbook and dropping it on the coffee table, “What exactly are you talking to Cas about every day? The weather?”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, slamming his jaw shut, “I never claimed to have my shit together.” 

“You did,” Sam says, hotly, “Repeatedly, to Ellen and to the state.”

“And I lost, remember?” Dean asks, voice sour, “But thanks for the reminder, Sam.”

“I, just…” Sam says, “We’re talking about it tomorrow at lunch. Me and Sarah.”

“Good,” Dean says, “I like Sarah.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “Me too.”

“Good,” Dean says, heading to the kitchen to swipe himself a beer, to find Sam still sat on the sofa staring with his shoulders clenched, poised to say _something_. 

“I’m not mad about you about that Friday,” Sam says, eventually. _That_ is definitely news to Dean, because Sam’s sure as hell done a good impression of being mad at him about that Friday. He’s barely goddamn spoken to him. If he didn’t have Cas and Bobby listening to him whine about it, he’d have gone crazy from lack of conversation over a week ago. He just figured Sam being mad was a given. He _should_ be mad, too, because it’s… Dean isn’t Sam’s responsibility. That’s not how it goes. “You’re twenty one. You’re supposed to get drunk, you’re just - you’re supposed to have fun doing it, not…”

“Sam,” 

“You’re supposed to drink too much because you’re young and stupid, not because you’re unhappy.”

“I’m not unhappy.”

“Dean, I _know_ you -”

“- Damnit, Sam. I am not unhappy,” Dean says, fist clenching around his beer bottle, “Okay, that was a shitty week and I threw myself a damn pity party and didn’t invite anyone else, but that’s one evening. I am okay, Sam. I need you to stop carrying this belief that you’re some kind of burden. That you living here isn’t exactly what I need to make me happy. I’m not gonna insult you and say that my life is _perfect_ but that’s not your responsibility and it’s not your fault. It’s not Cas’ fault either, while we’re at it, it’s just a byproduct of freaking _reality_.”

“It’s not fair.”

“Who ever the fuck told you any of this was fair?” Dean asks, “Sam, if you’re worried about my freaking happiness, the way to deal with that is not to cut me out of what’s going on in your head and not talk to me about crap that’s going on in your life.”

“I know,” Sam says, hotly, “I didn’t - I wasn’t keeping you out of stuff, with Sarah. I just didn’t know what was going on. She asked if she could come over to talk and then…”

“Uhuh. I’ve had that talk, Sammy,” Dean says, “In multiple positions.”

“You’re such a jerk, Dean.”

“Hey, I reserve the right to embarrass the crap out of you as your big brother,” Dean says, “That’s _payback_ for you being such a cockblock all those years we shared a damn bedroom.” 

“Well I took the pizza money, jerk.”

“You were supposed to, bitch.”

“And,” Sam says, “Uh. About those condoms.”

“Wow,” Dean says, “So, uh, we’re talking about this?” 

“We don’t have to,”

“Nope, you started the conversation. Let’s have at it,” Dean says, “ _You and Sarah,_ huh?”

“We haven’t talked about _that_ yet, either, but… maybe.”

“But you _will_ talk, right? before you, uh, do a little dance, make a little love, get down tonight.”

“Dean,” Sam says, bitchface reinstalled.

“Sorry,” Dean smirks, taking a seat on the arm of the sofa, “I'm taking this seriously, Sammy, I am. I just didn't think you thought this fell into my role as your not-guardian. You weren't exactly a chatty cathy about _Ruby_.”

“I know,” Sam says, that small voice he gets whenever he talks about Ruby, these days, which is a lot better than the staunch defensive act that Dean had gotten used to. If Sam hadn’t nipped the Ruby situation in the bud, Dean’s not all that sure he would have _let_ Sam get himself emancipated (not that any of that was up to Dean), because he sure as hell wasn’t listening to Dean about it. At least Sonny had some authority over Sam's life for a while back there. Dean hasn’t had that for years. “But that...that wasn't good.”

“No arguments there,” Dean says, “That was some shit show, there.”

“Anyway, Dean, who else am I going to talk to about this? Bobby?” Sam asks, turning the puppy dog eyes in his direction and, right, Sam doesn’t have anyone else. He’s just got _Dean_ and that’s… that’s all his little brother gets.

Sam’s right about a lot of things. None of this is fair.

“Dude,” Dean says, “Don't bring _that_ up. I'll never be able to look at him straight again, but sure, let's have the goddamn talk.Sex is awesome. Don't be a douchebag or a freaking idiot, and make sure you do actually talk about it first. Done.”

“That's it?” Sam smirks.

“More than what I got,” Dean shrugs, “And you and Ruby already banged that gong, so… You’re not a kid, Sam, and you’ve already proven you can make good decisions. And like you said - it's not like I can talk.”

Sam chews that thought over for a few moments.

“I guess,” Sam says, then turning to look at him, “Dean, who did you lose your virginity to? Amanda Heckerling?”

Ah, crap. This isn't a discussion he was intending on prying open.

“No,” Dean says, “We just fooled around. Pretty sure that time you bust in on us was as heated as it got. It was, uh, Kathy Matthews,” Dean says, “Right before we moved here. Well, right before where we were right before we were here.”

“I don't know who she is.”

“Well, you wouldn't,” Dean says, “You weren't supposed to know about it,” Dean takes a swig of his beer. Sam gives him a look that's four parts puppy eyes and one part curiosity. “You were, what, eleven? It's not like you _wanted_ to know. You were too busy butting heads with Dad about moving around so much to ask questions about someone I wasn't even dating.”

“You weren't together?” Dean makes a face. “That’s not a judgement. Just a question.”

“If we're doing this, you're having a beer too, and budge the hell up.” Dean says, grabbing another beer from the kitchen and taking up residence in the space has made for him. Dean clinks their beers together before propping his feet up on the coffee table. “Kathy was a little older, about as messed up as I was at that age, and we'd been, uh, meeting up to smoke and skip a school and we slept together after I told her we were leaving again. I stole a condom from dad's wallet. The whole thing was just - ”

“ - Your own shit show?”

“Yeah,” Dean says.

“Then Bela, then Cas?”

“No, then Aaron, then Bela, then Cas,” Dean corrects.

“And then?” Sam asks.

“You mean _then_ who did I sleep with?”

“I'm just curious, Dean, you shut me out of a lot of this.”

“Well you used to get all grossed out,” Dean says, “Look at you all grown up and asking questions. Cas takes us through the rest of high school, obviously. And then, ah, crap, this chick named Jamie? Then… Cas. Cassie. Ginger chick with these killer legs, then, yep, _Cas_ again. You need more names? I can run through my contact list.”

“Not necessary,” Sam says, “I get it. Other incidents of casual sex, then Cas again.”

“Depressingly accurate,” Dean comments, “ Look, the point is, you can have my freaking condoms and I'm glad you're talking to me about this. Take em all if you want. Not like I need them at this point. Cas ain't gonna be able to fly out here till freaking January.”

Sam's expression changes and Dean registers that he’s revealed _way_ too much about their not-relationship.

“So you're - are you back together?”

“Uh, no,” Dean says, jaw clenching. “It's just - I'm working it out.” 

“Dean,” Sam says, exhaling, “What _is_ it about Castiel?”

That is one hell of a question.

“I wish I could tell you,” Dean says, taking another swig of beer, “If I could work that out, maybe I'd know what the fuck to do about it.”

“He's coming to visit in January?”

“If that's okay by you.”

“Sure,” Sam says, “Just give me advance warning so I can stay at Kevin's or something.”

“Sam, I know you're not in the Cas fan club-”

“- it's not that,” Sam says, “It's the other thing we were just discussing.”

“Huh. Hey, you're right. Maybe we need to work out some kind of sock on the door system. A code word.”

“Dean,”

“My vote is _funky town_.”

“Dean,” Sam says, reluctantly smiling now, “We do not need a code word.”

“Funky town.”

“Dean -”

“Funky _town_.” Dean grins, as Sam rolls his eyes, looking happier than Dean’s seen him in weeks. This is what he’s missed about the last few weeks of conversation. Actually getting to hang out with his brother, in the midst of all the rest of the crap in his life. It shouldn’t be as hard as it is.

Then his phone starts ringing. 

“Oh, good, Cas is calling.”

“Hey, if you wanna keep talking - “ Dean begins, pausing with his phone halfway out of his pocket. 

“ - Anything to save me from this conversation,” Sam says, standing up and grabbing his textbook off the table.

“ - I can call him back later,” Dean finishes, tracking his little brother wedging his beer under the crook of his elbow.

“I have homework,” Sam says, “But if you’re headed to funky town, long distance, just… Give me five minutes.”

“That is not a thing we do,” Dean says, “Like you said, Sam. We just talk about the weather.”

“Sure, Dean,” Sam says, with another eye roll, “Enjoy your weather talk. Night.”

“Night,” Dean returns, swinging his legs round to take up the rest of the sofa before hitting _answer_ on Cas’ call. Sam is still halfway through the door, so he offers him a smirk before leading the conversation. “Heeey, Cas. What are you wearing?”

“Jerk,” Sam calls out, in the moments before he shuts the door to his bedroom with a decisive click. 

“Bitch,” Dean calls back with his phone pressed into his neck. “Hey.”

“You’ve resolved the argument with your brother,” Cas declares, voice sounding all honey soaked and gorgeous and, hot _damn_ , does his life not completely suck right now. Not when Sam isn’t mad at him and Cas knows enough about Dean’s headspace to read _that_ from the way Dean answers the phone. “Good.”

Dean sinks into the sofa, shuts his eyes and let’s Cas’ voice wash over him, thinking _yeah, damn right it’s good_. 

* 

“Dean,” Cas says, his voice stuffed full of an urgency that Dean wasn’t really expecting to hear on an innocuous Wednesday evening. He’s halfway through defrosting some mystery item from the freezer because he’s _just_ got back from his evening class and he’s hungry and too exhausted to cook. Sam got back five minutes before him and is currently face down on the couch muttering something about too much homework. “My only monday class has been cancelled next week.”

“Oh, sweet, long weekend.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Cas says, “Dean, I finish at three on Fridays. I have… three and a half days free.”

“Uhuh,” Dean says, pulling out a couple of plates and a saucepan. He’s pretty sure that his mystery item is some kind of chilli, so rice seems like the most logical option, but he wants to eat _now_. Rice takes effort. Actual cooking. Maybe they could go more creative and have chilli and… Ramen. Toast. Something quicker. “Big plans?”

“ _Yes,”_ ,” Cas says, impatient, “I’m going to fly to Kansas.”

“You - holy _shit_ ,” Dean mutters, the pan slipping out of his hand and clattering to the floor, because… Because _Castiel_ , in Kansas. In less that two weeks time. “ _Next_ weekend? Are you freaking serious right now? Cas, that is the best news I’ve had in _months_.”

“You want to see me,” Cas says, sounding more pleased than he should about that because… because _obviously_ Dean wants to see him. He wants to see Cas more than he knows how to put into words. It’s this living, breathing _need_ alive in his chest. “Good.”

“Cas,” Dean says, voice catching a little in his throat, “A lot.” 

“I hoped.”

“Dean,” Sam says, looking all bleary in the doorway, squinting at the saucepan still abandoned on the floor. “You - loud noise.”

“Stand down, buddy,” Dean throws back, this deep seated well of _happiness_ bubbling up from his gut and take over the bone weary exhaustion he’d been battling with. He’d been working on January, so the concept of next weekend feels like winning the goddamn lottery. Cas. Castiel. _Next_ weekend.

“Kay,” Sam says, “Food?”

“Chilli,” Dean says, eyeing the defrosting tub of something. “Probably. With uh… potato chips. Like the world's crappiest nachos.” Dean settles on, because he’s definitely too het up right now to stand around waiting for rice to cook. He wants to eat and then relish in the knowledge that in _nine_ day’s time, he’ll get to see Cas.

“Awesome,” Sam says, yawning, “Say hi to Cas for me.”

That’s the nearest thing to acceptance of the whole Cas situation he’s ever gotten from Sam.

“You can say hi yourself _next fucking weekend_ ,” Dean says, something catching a light in his chest, that might just be hope. “Cas, you're serious about this? You're actually gonna… Gonna come to freaking Lawrence.” 

“Yes,” Cas says, “Perhaps I could… Stay with you for part of the weekend.”

“Oh, fuck, I gotta share you with Hester and Gabriel. Damnit.”

“We did talk about you coming over for dinner.”

“I’m pretty sure putting me and Gabriel face to face at this point is a freakin’ terrible idea,” Dean says, “But, we could pencil in some of the other stuff I was talking about,” Dean begins, then his chest constricts and sinks because _shit_. “Oh, sonuvabitch - Cas, I'm working next Saturday.”

“You're working?”

“ Yeah,” Dean says, “but I can… I'll get out of it. Walt owes me big time, so we can…I’ll swap Saturday shifts. Work every Saturday till freakin christmas if I gotta. I can sort this. Or you can - you can hang out with Hester and Gabriel till I’m done.”

“I haven’t spoken to them about this yet,” Cas says, “Dean, please do everything within your power to be available.”

“You try and stop me,” Dean says, the words sticking in the back of his throat, “Should be fine. People swap Saturday shifts all the time. Hey, _nine days_ , Cas. Nine.” 

“I know,” Cas says, “I’m going to call Hester.” 

“Awesome,” Dean says, “I’m gonna start badgering Walt about swapping my shift but this is, damnit, this is the best news. This is the _best_ goddamn news. Hey, see you later, Cas.”

“I’ll let you know when I’ve booked my flights.”

“Awesome,” Dean exhales, mouth morphing into a grin as Cas says his familiar, curt goodbye before he’s left beaming around his kitchen. Nine days. Nine. 

“Cas is coming to town?” Sam asks, still a little bleary, but setting up shop leaning against one of the kitchen counters. Dean puts the mostly defrosted mystery probably-chilli in the microwave.

“You’re making it sound like he’s freakin’ santa.”

“You look about that excited.”

“Shut up,” Dean says, affectionately, as he starts typing out his message to Walt. “Next weekend is a helluva lot earlier than freaking _January_.”

“Yep. By about two months,” Sam says, “How come he’s not around for Thanksgiving or Christmas?”

“Why the sudden interest, Sasquatch? Figured you were being all stoic and pointedly not delivering your opinion on the subject.”

“It’s hard to be mad about something that has you looking happier than Ellen’s pie,” Sam says, and Dean can’t reasonably deny it right this moment, “And it doesn’t appear to be going away, so.”

“Cas has a half brother in Illinois,” Dean says, “The kind of half brother he didn’t know about till his Dad walked out on him, and he’s spending Thanksgiving with him, his wife and their kid. They’ve only met in person twice, so it’s a whole big thing. Christmas, the whole Milton entourage are in LA with Anna.”

“Gabriel’s sister?”

“Right,” Dean says.

“I think we have salsa in the fridge,” Sam says, “For the crappy nachos.” 

“Salsa,” Dean frowns, “Dude, is it open? How long has that been there?”

“You’re the one who cooks, Dean.”

“Right, I’m the one who takes care of your lazy ass,” Dean says, “But apparently _you_ know what’s in the fridge. Huh,” Dean continues, pulling the jar out of the fridge and inspecting it, “Doesn’t look like it’s gonna kill us.”

“How long does it say it should be open for?” Sam asks, “What’s the deal with Cas’ father, then?”

“Uh, two to three days after opening,” Dean reads, “You feeling brave, Sammy?”

“It’s Sam,” Sam corrects, “Sammy is an awkward preteen.”

“Whatever, _Sammy_ ” Dean counters, “What deal are we talking about, here?”

“That’s the whole reason you drove out to New Haven, right? His Dad?”

“Right,” Dean says, “Guy’s a total deadbeat. No word since he walked out on Cas right before he moved in, till he got in contact with Hester wanting to meet up to freaking apologise. Now they email.”

“They email?”

“Every other week,” Dean says, unscrewing the jar of salsa again to smell it, “Like, Cas emails him every Thursday, he emails back the other Thursdays.”

“What?”

“I’m serious,” Dean says, “It’s a whole thing. They send this hyper formal weird-ass emails about how their weeks going, but uh… yeah, that’s - complicated. Pretty sure Cas can’t work out whether he hates the guy and at the same time he doesn’t want to… miss his chance.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, voice softer, “Family is complicated.”

It’s _something_ that Sam is actually asking about this. The cherry on top of his glorious freaking day because, hell, it doesn’t matter that his day at work kind of sucked and that his business class Sam coerced him into taking at community college is about six times more boring that waiting for grass to grow, because he is gonna see Cas. 

And, the thing is, if Cas can find free weekends in his schedule maybe he can _keep_ doing that. It’s been about… seven weeks since they last saw each other. A month a half. He hasn’t been counting, exactly, even if he felt the distance flood in with every day. That would make it about two months.

_Two months_ is manageable. He could work with seeing Cas every two months. That’s a damn site more workable than every _four_ months. If they can do _next_ weekend, and then January, then Cas will have Spring Break, then they’re most of the way till the summer. 

That’s… that’s possible. 

And he doesn’t need his good mood being brought down by them even nearly bordering on conversation about John Winchester. 

“Right,” Dean exhales, swallows, only half forces a grin. “You brave enough to try the salsa?” 

“You first,” Sam counters.

“No way. As the breadwinner here, you’ve gotta take one for the team.”

“Child abuse, dude.”

“You’re not a child, dumbass. You went to court to prove that.”

“Dean, I’m not eating the out of date salsa.”

“Let’s settle this like men,” Dean says, setting down the jar to hold out his hand in front of him. “You _always_ throw scissors,” Sam bitchfaces, holding his own hand aloft, anyway. Sam’s a good kid. The best brother he could have asked for, even if he won’t volunteer to try the damn salsa. “There’s no point.” 

“Spoken like a defeatist,” Dean says, just before they count to three.

He throws scissors, like always, because _one_ day Sam is going to second guess himself and throw paper.

Not today, apparently. 

As it turns out, the salsa is most definitely off. 

“Gross, Dean,” Sam comments, as Dean throws the damn jar away with vehemence, “Really gross.”

“Make yourself useful and grate some cheese,” Dean grouses, to goddamn happy to be really mad about anything, at least until he picks his phone off the kitchen counter to read his two latest messages.

The first is from Cas stating that Hester and Innias are away on a business trip that whole weekend, so he’ll fly out with the pure intention of seeing Dean and that he needs to know when Dean is free before he books the flights. The second is from Walt saying that he’s at a family wedding that weekend, so couldn’t swap shifts even if he wanted to. 

His lungs constrict uncomfortably, but it will be fine. It’s not _ideal_ , but he’s more than certain he can talk one of the other’s into swapping Saturday shifts - Roy or Tara, probably - because he has to. He _has_ to, because there’s not a chance in hell that he’s going to let the chance of seeing _Cas_ slip away from him.

Except the world has always been, at least a little bit, out to screw him over.

*

The fear that it’s _not going to happen_ doesn’t properly start to creep up on him until midway through Thursday, when he’s spoken to every single one of the guys who work Thursday and every single fucking one of them is out of town, or busy in the kind of way that just isn’t changeable that Saturday. Roy is visiting his father in freaking Washington, which means sense when Dean thinks about it, because swapping shifts with Roy is how he wound up working that weekend anyway (and _fuck Roy_ for landing him in that shit). Marty works a second job at the weekends. Cole’s kid has a baseball game and Cole’s the kind of serious about his family that him attending is non-negotiable, which Dean can’t even argue with in good faith. 

And then it feels like the _one_ good thing that’s happened to him in weeks is slowly being peeled away from him, except that’s not even true - because he’s got _Sam_ and he’s got _Bobby_ but -- 

Is it too much to ask for one fucking weekend?

Cas has been messaging him about plane tickets and Dean just keeps telling him he’s _working on it_ because he doesn’t want to face the conversation where he has to tell him that he can’t come. That there’s no goddamn _point_ for him to fly all the way out to Kansas for one measly Sunday before he has to head back and he just… he really wanted to see him. He wanted that hug. That reassurance that this whole game they’ve been playing is worth at least some of the inevitable fall out.

To look Cas in the eye and actually manage to say some of the stuff that’s been churning in his gut. Not _all_ of it, because he’s not there yet - not by a long goddamn way - but he’s pretty damn sure that if he had Cas, solid and real, infront of him he could tell him that he’d missed him. To his face.

Sam asks him if he’s managed to get his shift swapped late on Thursdays evening and Dean nearly bites his head off but, _goddamnit_ , no. He’s getting this. He’s getting this weekend if he has to beg Rufus on his fucking knees to close the shop because....

He needs to see Castiel. January is so far away. He can’t _do_ that. Not when the concept of something sooner has been dangled under his nose. No. 

Tara. There’s still _Tara_. It takes him a good amount of time on Thursday tracking her down on facebook. He barely uses the damn thing, but he doesn’t have her number and she doesn’t work Thursday or Fridays. He sends her a message, too, a long winding thing with far too much personal information, but he needs, _needs_ , her to understand that this is important.

Her answer doesn’t chime in till he gets back home from work on Friday evening. It’s apologetic and regretful but mostly it makes him want to throw his phone across the room until it shatters. He suppresses the urge only to call Rufus - pride be damned - to plead with him to let him take the day off. 

It’s pointless. He _knows_ it’s doomed because the whole fucking point of them being open on Saturdays is so people who work during the week can pick up their cars and he knows there’s at least four people coming to pick up their damn cars that Saturday so it’s… it’s not like there’s anything Rufus _can_ do - because as grumpy an orney as he is, Rufus is a freaking awesome boss - but he just…

He has to try. He has to.

Rufus says he’d cover the shift himself, but he agreed to take his ex-wife’s mother to a doctors appointment and ‘that situation’s complicated enough without me screwin’ around’ and Dean feels like his chest is caving in.

“It’s fine,” Dean says, through gritted teeth, even though he’s second away from crumbling, “No problem, Rufus. I figured I - I had to ask.”

“Uhuh,” Rufus says, and that’s that.

That’s it.

“Dean,” Sam says, stepping into the kitchen, where’s Dean’s got a death grip on his phone and is staring at the goddamn wall. He wants to hit something. Break something. He wants to _drink_ and scream and make the world pay for how goddamn unfair it is, but he can’t do any of those things.

He’s got to… gotta keep his crap together for Sam. Call Cas. Explain.

“Dean, what if - maybe if _I_ covered your shift?”

“Sam,” Dean manages, his throat tight, painful. “I get that you’re trying to help, but you - you can’t. You can’t fix a car. Rufus wouldn’t… it’s not possible.”

“Can he come another weekend?”

Dean shakes his head, heart in his throat. He shouldn’t… he shouldn’t have gotten excited. He shouldn’t have let himself get so carried away with the idea of it. He should have _known_.

“Dean -”

“ I’m _fine_ , Sam,” Dean cuts across, although he doesn’t sound the least bit convincing, but he just…. He’s not sure what’s gonna come out if Sam tries to push him on this, but he knows he doesn’t want to deal with. “I’m… I’m gonna take a drive. Call Cas.” 

“ - Dean.”

“Drop it, Sam,” Dean says, voice sharp as he grabs his jacket and pulls it on.

He doesn’t exactly mean to drive to the bridge he nearly crashed into, not quite on purpose, six weeks after he found on John Winchester was dead, but he can’t claim to be _surprised_ when he finds himself parked up and staring. Lump in his throat. Head spinning. He’s spent more time than he’d admit to anyone here when it feels like the swirl of _emotion_ inside his chest might consume him, completely and utterly. It’s… a perspective thing. 

This place was a turning point.

It’s a snapshot of _context_ to try and quieten his mind, or reorganise everything, and it’s a good enough of a place as any for him to have this conversation with Cas.

He can’t see Cas once every four fucking months. He can’t do it. It’s too _hard_. It’s too goddamn difficult. He… he can’t. He just doesn’t have enough capacity to deal with his emotions to be spread this thin. It’s not possible. 

Dean’s got two missed calls from Cas over the past two days that he hasn’t responded to, so Cas has probably already figured out that something is up. 

He answers on the first ring with a familiar “hello, Dean,” that makes his chest ache because… he can’t give this up, either. Not _again_.

“Cas, I,” Dean begins, then his voice breaks and, damn it, it feels like he's gonna cry and that's so, so stupid. It's one weekend. He can deal with not getting it. For _Cas_ , he can. He _can_ , it just all so fucking unfair and it feels like his lungs have been filled with cement. He just wanted _one weekend_ and the universe can't even give him that. Not even a few goddamn days. “I can't - I have to work Saturday. I can't get it off. I… I asked every single damn person at work. I can't do it.”

“What time do you finish?”

“What?” Dean asks, because that’s…. Not what he was expecting Cas to ask him. He figured he’d get a dose of stoic disappointment and just… something. Something a lot harder to deal with than this. 

“When do you finish work on Saturday>?”

“Four, usually. On a Saturday.” Dean says, throat thick, “I’m so fucking sorry, I swear to you -”

“And that’s why you didn’t call me? Because you were struggling to get the time of work?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “I _wanted_ to see you, Cas. This isn’t me flaking out on you. I really, I… I really…”

“I know, Dean,” Cas says, “You sound… upset.”

“Yeah, that’s one word for it,” Dean says, slamming his eyes shut, grip tightening on the steering wheel of the impala. The baby isn’t helping him feel reassured the way it usually did. “Cas. Castiel.” 

“I'm coming anyway.” Cas declares, deep and so freaking incredible that Dean can't even - can't even process what he's said. He can just hear his pulse rate speed up and his breath catch in his throat because… because _Cas is coming anyway_.

“What?”

“I want to see you. Dean, January is… It's too _far_. Can you get Monday off work?”

_Cas wants to see him_.

“Probably, wait, I'll… I'll message Rufus, but - Monday, Monday is easier, but Cas… It's gotta cost you a lot just for one Sunday. You can’t… it's over a thousand freaking miles, Cas, for _one day_.”

“That’s why I’m not going to drive,” Cas says, as Dean fumbles with his phone to send a shaky message to Rufus about Monday, his heart still racing. “Dean, there’s part of Saturday and Monday, too. That is significantly longer than no time at all.” And _fuck_. Fuck. He might get to see Cas next goddamn weekend. He might get to see after all. He might _still get this_. “Dean, I'm losing my mind. I want to see you.”

“I, yeah,” Dean says, “I know. I really…” Dean stops, frozen for a split second at the world’s _speediest_ response from Rufus of all freaking time and, and…. “Cas, Rufus says yes to Monday.”

“I'm going to book a plane ticket right now.”

“Cas, are you serious?”

“I'm on my laptop checking the times,” Cas says, “Can I stay with you next weekend?”

“Are you fucking _kidding me_ right now?”

“This could all be a rouse to stop me from visiting you,” Cas says, but his voice is syrupy and affectionate, lovely and freaking gorgeous, and Dean is going to _see him_ in… in just over a week’s time. He might not know what the ever loving fuck they’re doing with all their phone calls and exchanged text messages, but… he’s not sure he cares about that when Cas will be there _in the flesh_. In Kansas. In Dean’s apartment. In Lawrence, with Sam and Bobby and the car he’s fixing up in his spare time. “I didn't want to presume.”

“Presume anything you want, Cas,” Dean exhales, “You’re really coming?” 

“If I land a four on Saturday, are you able to pick me up from the airport?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Yeah. I can do that. You might have to wait around a little till I can get there, but - yeah. I can do that. Can drop you back off on Monday, too.”

“Excellent.”

“Cas, are you honest to god booking these tickets, because I’m not sure I can take this not happening.”

“It’s… booked,” Cas says, his voice a little breathy with adrenaline, and, and… and _holy shit_. 

“I - _awesome_ ,” Dean says, all the tension that’s been building up in his shoulders just dropping away because… because _Cas, Cas, Cas_. “Cas, do I even wanna know how much money you just spent?”

“I suspect not,” Cas says, “Dean, I will see you in seven days time.” 

“Seven _days_ ,” Dean breathes back, the awe of it tangible and thick.

It takes a little while for him to regain the composure to drive.

Before he turns the impala engine back on, he texts _funky town_ to his little brother, feeling a little heddy with something that might just be joy.

(Sam went out and bought a couple of steaks with his money from working in the dinner while Dean was driving, so he gets back to Sam cooking him dinner, with a couple of beers already in the fridge. He’s flying so goddamn high from the relief that Cas _is_ coming next weekend after all, that he has a hard time hiding how fucking pleased he is about his thoughtful, wonderful kid brother.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter (for those who are into that sort of thing)


	10. Chapter 10

Rufus has given him full permission to shut up shop the second the last customer picks up their car, which _obviously_ means he’s still sat there at quarter to four waiting for Mrs Whatever to come and pick up her piece of crap car, sending Cas multiple texts about just how goddamn late he’s gonna be (that Cas won’t have gotten yet, given he’s still mid air). In the end, he falls into the car at five past four - goddamn customers - and hits the road before he has a really chance to _think_.

He’s been ignoring the swooping nervousness in his gut for the last three days and he hasn’t allowed himself to dwell on anything that came after the relief of their being an end date on this goddamn _longing_. Dean doesn’t have the space in his head among everything else to fall into overthinking which means that it isn’t till he can _see_ Cas, with his goddamn trench coat and his bag over his shoulder, that it registers that he's got no idea how this works.

They've talked near enough daily: about mundane crap, mostly, but enough about their deep rooted issues that it's suddenly weird as hell that their catapulted into face to face. And it's - he kind of figured that they were going to sleep together, but they didn't exactly talk about it, and it's only just occurred to him now that that isn't a given. It's not like that's _why_ he wanted Cas here - because, okay, sex with Cas is fucking wonderful, but just getting to feel like Cas’ is trying to see into his fucking soul is still more than enough to make this an amazing weekend - but he just figured that they were on the same page. He didn't make up the spare bed they don't have, but he could have asked if he wanted Dean to take the sofa,or something. He probably should have _asked_ Cas out to dinner rather than just assuming they'd go.

Maybe they kissed goodbye last time they were face to face, but Dean hasn't exactly been using pet names and waxing poetic over the damn phone. It's been about crap TV and essays and family drama. If you took out their shared history and the fact that every time they're in the same same room they wind up making it out, their phone conversations could almost come across as just… Two old buddies. Codependent old buddies, maybe, but not… Involved. They're not _in_ a relationship. They may have agreed that they're not sleeping with other people, but that doesn't mean Dean can roll down the window and kiss him hello.

Dean has no idea what the fuck he's supposed to be doing with his _anything_.

Cas is at the car. Dean had called him at the last traffic light and told him he was a couple of minutes away, so he must have headed out to the short stay parking lot then.

He drops his bag onto the backseat before sliding into shotgun, fixing Dean with those _freaking eyes_.

“Hello Dean,”

“Hey Cas,” Dean throws back, as Cas just looks at him, frown instated and, yep, Dean hasn't got a fucking clue what he's doing, but he's smiling anyway because… Because _fuck_.

Cas’s frown increases.

“Uh, did it just hit you that we didn't talk about what this whole visit thing entails, at all?”

“While I was waiting for you to arrive, yes.” Cas says, mouth softening a little, which is awesome. He’s been filling in all this changes of expression for the better part of two months and actually getting to see what that looks likes is pretty sweet. The desire to reach forward and kiss is intensified sixfold, maybe, but he figured that would ramp up with the lack of distance.

“Me too,” Dean says, attempting a grin like that's amusing rather than fucking terrifying. It feels a little like he’s wearing the expression rather than living it, but that’s okay. They’ll get there. “I… Booked some place for dinner, if you want. We're a little early, but..”

“Near here?”

“Yep,” Dean says, “Tara says it's the best duck she's ever eaten and she's about the only person at work I trust, so…”

“You asked for recommendations?” Cas asks, almost smiling.

“Shut up,” Dean says, warmth creeping up his spine, “Not like I drive all the way out here to eat often.”

“Hmm,” Cas says, settling back in his seat a little. Dean follows the movement with his eyes totally, utterly sucked. Cas in his baby has always been a _thing_ and it’s no different now. He looks good. Cas _always_ looks good, but it’s different, now, after so much talking and the _longing_. 

This distance thing is a massive freaking problem. 

And Dean was in such a rush to get to the airport that he forgot that he definitely intended to _get changed_ before he showed up here in the shirt he’d been working in all day.

“Oh, crap, I need to…” Dean says, leaning into the back to grab the spare shirt he bought, “Change. ‘m covered in engine grease, just figured I didn't wanna be any later picking you up.”

“It’s fine, Dean, I bought coffee.”

“Yeah, well, you'd think traffic on a goddamn Saturday -” Dean begins, as he pulls his t-shirt over his head and screws it into a ball, “ - wouldn't be out to screw me, personally.”

“I could be willing to skip dinner,” Cas says, eyes skimming down Dean’s skin, settling on his abs, just before Dean pulls on the button down he talked himself into bringing this morning. Cas’s gaze is electric. Bubbling with something promising. Maybe him forgetting to change until now was a good thing.

“Not an option.”

“Because you booked the table?” Cas asks, that blue, blue gaze watching him button up his damn shirt so intently that the warmth curling up his spine turns into full blown _heat_. “Bookings can be cancelled, unless you paid some kind of deposit, which would be wasteful.”

“No. Little brother, remember?” Dean says, finishing buttoning up his shirt and getting dragged into meeting Cas’ gaze. There’s intent, there, which answers at least six of Dean’s questions. Another fourteen are answered straight off the bat by how shamelessly Cas is propositioning him, which is a new and not-new feeling. Cas hasn’t done that for a _while_ , but it’s not new-new.

“Dean, Sam lives with you. Always. Including after dinner.”

“He's crashing at Kevin's tonight,” Dean says, “Nerd time, all hours.”

“We have a free house?” Cas asks, and Dean could swear his voice is like five times deeper and so, so fucking hot.

“Yep. Almost like being a freaking adult.” 

“You look very nice, Dean. You should have told me to wear something nice.”

“Dude, you dress like a sexy tax accountant, always, I figured we were safe.” Dean throws back, leaning over to deposit his screwed up, oil-greased shirt into the back, turning to be struck again by Cas _right there_ , in his car, in Kansas. 

He’s beautiful. Dean’s been talking to him every day for months and now he’s sat in Dean’s car and he’s _so freaking beautiful_ and Dean suddenly has no idea what to say to him.

“Can I kiss you?” Cas asks, which might be the best question anyone has ever asked him, because Cas is a little unsure, but straight talking enough just to ask the question Dean would have spent hours building up to.

“Hell fucking yeah,” Dean says, stretching his arm along the back of the impala seat to provide a space for Cas to curl into. And, okay. _This_ is easy. Cas all up in his space, his hand on Dean’s thigh to keep in place, just _making out_. Low heat simmering in his gut. Cas warm and close. The familiar rough of stubble, the arch of his goddamn lips. Kissing Cas is the best goddamn thing and _that_ hasn’t changed since he was seventeen, even if Dean’s changed and Cas has changed and their lives have changed and Dean’s not all that sure where that leaves them.

“Okay,” Dean says, breaking away to breathe, their noses still almost touching, “We're beginning to stretch the definition of short stay. We should… we should go before I get a freaking parking ticket.”

“Worth it,” Cas declares, but he shifts away to the passenger side of the front seat and settles there. Resets himself. “How was your shift at work?”

_That’s_ more like the conversation they’ve been having lately and it feels a little… strange to shift gears. He knows how to handle their how-was-your-day-dear-shtick and he knows how to handle Cas boldly propositioning him in the front seat. He’s not sure how those two things relate to each other. 

“We doing this?” Dean asks, as he fires up the engine and cuts the noise of the radio. “It was longer than it freaking need a to be. If a place shuts at four, who shows up at ten to?”

“A person who wishes you were open till five.”

Dean huffs a smile before he pulls out of the parking lot, catching Cas’ eye in the mirror. 

“How was your flight, anyway?”

“Fine,” Cas says, “Flying doesn't bother me, Dean.”

“That, I don't get. Chunk of hard ass metal floating through the goddamn clouds? No thanks.”

“So you have no intention of ever leaving America?” Cas asks, eyes fixed on him via the mirror, open and curious. 

“Hey, I can drive to a whole load of places that aren't America. Canada. Mexico. Pull a full on Jack Kerouac.”

“Write an entire novel about visiting a brothel?”

“That is not what it's about.” Dean says.

“You're proposing you spend years of your life driving back and forth across a continent for no other reason than restlessness?”

“The open road, Cas. The spirit of freaking adventure.” 

“Yes,” Cas says and, damnit, Dean’s _missed_ Cas getting all passionate about books or movies, or whatever the hell else, and hearing him talk about it with that voice. They’ve been doing this with Dr Sexy, obviously, but they used to talk like this all the time, before. “The spirit of fathering multiple children, never paying child maintenance and misusing illegal substances.” 

“Is there a way to correctly use illegal substances?”

“Dean, that book is terrible.”

“Damn, Cas, tell us how you really feel,” Dean grins, shifting his grip on his wheel to turn and smile at him, briefly. “That's a great American novel, right there.”

“I would like to speak to whoever made that decision.”

“Not sure that's how it works,” Dean says, “Huh. You actually understood one of my references.”

“Literature is within my remit. Anyway, Meg has been furthering my popular culture education for years.”

“Well, that might be all I got to give on Literature. Sam made me read it after he developed some theory that dad named us after those guys- Dean and Sal.”

“If your brother was taken down by dysentery, I'm certain you would stay at the hospital rather than abandon him in Mexico,” Cas says, “Were you name after them?”

“No,” Dean says, “Mom’s parents were called Deanna and Samuel, so that's that mystery solved. Enjoyed the book though.”

“I… did not.” Cas says, suddenly all diplomatic, like it’s just registered that maybe ripping into a book Dean bought up might not be polite. 

“I got that.” Dean grins.

“I wasn't intending to belittle something you enjoyed.”

“Dude, you've watched a whole freaking series of Dr Sexy with me.”

“Yes, but you invited me to belittle that with you. Insulting a book you enjoyed without precedent is different. Books are important, Dean.”

“Maybe to you,” Dean says, “I'm a movie kind of guy, anyway.”

“Your opinion is still valid,” Cas says, “And movies are stories too. Well, _some_ movies are stories. Other’s are soulless _things_ created to reap financial benefit, but the same can be said of certain books.”

“What don't you like about the book?”

“…There is very little I like about the book,” Cas says, evenly enough that Dean actually laughs.

“Tell me. Look, man, you start laying into slaughterhouse five or star wars we got a problem. I can take a little criticism of On The Road. Hit me,” Dean grins, settling into his seat, mouth pulling into a smile. They used to do this as teenagers. Cas assassinating whatever dumb movie they watched by layering on meaning after meaning. It’s pretty damn wonderful to fall back into that, even Cas looks like he’s regretting being so vocal without invitation. “Cas. Come on.”

“The disregard of women as people throughout,” Cas delivers, “The absurdity of the patience these women _apparently_ have.” 

“With the on-off thing? Because, honestly, I’m not sure we can talk.”

“You didn’t leave me for another person, then change your mind, then change your mind, and then change your mind.”

“Did you just make yourself a woman in this scenario?” Dean grins, taking a left.

“You posited a similarity with yourself and Dean, which I do not see. I’m just rolling with the analogy.” Cas says.

“Spoken like a true Yale-er,” Dean grins, “Okay. Continue. But I gotta say, I’d put you as Carlo Marx type.” 

“I’m not sure that’s the compliment you intend it to be,” Cas says, “Although _he_ is granted the opportunity to have a personality, he spends a great deal of time expressed interest in Dean with no basis of reciprocation. Anyway, you believing their to be similarities with you and Dean is a disservice to yourself. _You_ have a capacity for loyalty and seriousness that runs from your soul _and_ you would never carelessy hurt the people around you like that.”

“Really?” Dean asks, something sharp in his windpipe, “Seems like I’ve carelessly hurt pretty much every person around me, exactly like that.” 

“Dean,” Cas says, voice full of something, but Dean’s not sure he wants to get into this right before frigging dinner, even if he kind of bought it on himself. Goddamn _Cas_ , who still seems to have this crazy, inflated view of who Dean is as a person, even after all of their history.

“ _Anyway_ , I’ll grant you that the portrayal of women is bullshit.”

“You don’t forgive yourself for hurting others, Dean.”

“Right, like _you_ can talk.”

“In my defence, you haven’t forgiven me either,” Cas says, his gaze suddenly _not_ boring him into him from the shotgun seat and that’s… that’s true. He hasn’t, and he can’t, and he doesn’t want to think about _that_ when he actually has a chance to have a good weekend. 

“Does your family know you’re here?” Dean asks, partially for a change of conversation and partially because that had kept him up half the whole night, anyway, when he was trying not to think about their lack of relationship status. Cas hadn’t _mentioned_ talking to Gabriel or Hester about any of this, but it’s been… it’s been long enough that he should have done, under different circumstances. If they were something, rather than… whatever they are right now.

“No,” Cas says, still not looking at him. 

Well.

“I think Sal’s the one with the crappy view of women,” Dean says, just for something to say, “He’s the one who doesn’t give any of ‘em screen time and his track record is pretty shitty, too.”

“Some of them don’t even get _dialogue_ ,” Cas says, “And every twenty pages there will be a casual remark about Sal running out of money and requiring his aunt to bail him out. They’re both terrible.”

“Isn’t that at least half the point?”

“Not when their way of life is idolised.” 

“Hey, that’s the reader’s fault,” Dean throws back, because winding Cas up about _books_ is much safer than them wandering back into any other conversation, not because he has any real commitment to his opinion. “Not talkin’ _context_ here, just the actual book.”

“There’s no story arc,” Cas continues, as Dean pulls over to park, “We’re pulled along this _journey_ as thought it will lead to some conclusion, but there isn’t one. There is no character development. There is no take away point. There are just _words_ for the sake of their being words.”

“This is the food place,” Dean says, pocketing his car keys.

“And the _way_ it’s written, Dean,” Cas continues, as he steps out of the car and falls into step with him. “It’s convoluted and messy.”

“Life is convoluted and messy,” Dean says, after he’s given his name to the waitress and she’s led them to their table, “I mean, look at _us_. If we stream of consciousnessed this hot mess, I’m guessing we’d have something closer to On The Road than, I don’t know, Jane freaking Austen.”

“You can portray the complex and transient nature of existence without bad writing.” 

“Uhuh,” Dean says, propping his chin up by his elbows to watch Cas’ expressions, “But why _should_ we?” 

“If we’re being Austen characters now, then _you_ are definitely Elizabeth Bennet,” Cas says, sagely.

“Yeah, I got no idea what that means. You just walked right out of my barely passed high school zone of reference.”

“The _only_ reason you didn’t do very well at school was because you were homeless,” Cas says, blue eyes flashing, “This conversation alone is more than enough to prove that you are very smart.”

“What? My nethanderal like of book about two dudes and the open road.”

“Don’t belittle yourself now,” Cas returns, sharply, “You’re right that the writing style could have been chosen to recreate the lack of structure in their lifestyle and to break the mould of previous literary tradition.”

“That aint what I said.”

“It is, Dean,” Cas says, “What do you like about the book?”

“It's, I dunno, spent most of my life before I knew you on those highways. We've settled in a lot of those places, for a little while, and as a kid I remember thinking it was awesome, you know? The whole of America at my disposal. And it didn't matter that we were broke, Dad was barely there, living out of crappy motels and never settling for long enough to have to go deep into my own personal crap. And --- yeah. It captured something about the way that felt. The longing to move. To just _live_ , without responsibilities or consequences. To pick up a sweet fucking ride and just drive her to the ground. To be so goddamn desperate to feel alive that you'd just do whatever. _Escapism_ , even when you have no freaking idea what you want to escape from.” 

“Dean,” Cas says, voice deep and compelling as ever, “Do you still want to escape?”

“I think the nice lady's getting pissed that we haven't look at the menu yet,” Dean says, because he honestly doesn’t have an answer to _that_ question, and why does Cas always have to ask shit like that, anyway? To hone in on something personal and lodged deep inside his gut and drag it out to the cold light of day. “And I'm going to hit the head.” 

“What do you want to eat?”

“Whatever. The special.”

“It's pork or sea bass,” Cas says, frowning. “There's a beef tenderloin somewhere on the menu.”

“That,” Dean says, feeling oddly warm that Cas could probably order for him, anyway, at this point in the game. “Just, whatever. You pick.”

“Okay,” Cas says, finally picking up the menu, “But don’t think I haven’t registered you changing the subject.”

“Which time?” Dean asks, before shooting him a grin and heading to the bathroom to give himself a moment to regroup, focus, and work out what the hell he’s doing. The diagnosis of _yep, still totally in fucking love, still can’t think about before without feeling pissed_ is easy enough to come too, it just doesn’t lead to any natural conclusions. 

Cas gets the duck Tara recommended, which is good enough that Cas insists he tries some, and he feels warm and loose and _happy_ by the time they’ve talked their way through dinner, dessert, and Cas’ second glass of wine (the fact that Cas drinks _wine_ , now, is weird as hell, but whatever). They flirt and talk and do not talk about the past, or their relationship status, or the fact that this whole visit is way to freaking short, then get into a bit of a debate about who’s going to pick up the cheque.

Dean wins, because his argument that Cas _just_ spent an unknown amount of money on flying to Kansas is pretty compelling, even if it’s more because he could never have taken Cas out to somewhere _nice, nice_ before, and he wants to. 

He's almost expecting the urgency to kick in after they leave the restaurant, but it doesn’t. Not exactly. 

They're a little quieter on the drive back. The comfortable kind of quiet where Dean forgets to overthink because he feels too damn peaceful.

Then they're outside his apartment block.

“You want another drink?” Dean asks, after set his keys down on the coffee table and turned to face him, feeling content and _satisfied_ in a way that good food and good company sinks under your skin and settles there. Cas has been in his apartment before, that summer, when it was just his place, but now there’s traces of Sam everywhere. It must seem different to Cas.

“No,” Cas says, simply, and steps forward to kiss him, wrapping both of his arms around Dean’s neck to pull him in close, close and closer. Dean lets himself _stop thinking_ and get pulled along in the wake of sensation. Just, simple intimacy. Just _Cas_. Castiel. Cas. 

It feels…. simple to have Cas kiss him slowly and deliberately in his front room, even if nothing between them as _ever_ been that. It feels obvious; inevitable in a way that he can’t afford to think about, right now, because there’s way too much baggage. Cas pushes his leather jacket off Dean’s shoulders without pulling away, and then they kiss tangled up on the sofa for a while, all languid and considered and _good_. Dean skims his fingertips across the planes of Cas’ hips under his shirt, then settles with one hand resting on his lower back. He’s warm and _real_ and here and - 

Sex with Cas has always been good. When they were teenagers, it was different: they'd kiss and kiss till they tipped over the edge, then there were hands and mouths and bodies and not much finesse. At the beginning, particularly, there wasn't much guarantee of a direction. Maybe whenever the Miltons were out there was more built in expectation, but it was still all kind of _innocent_ in a way. It probably changed a little during that summer they were half broken up and half living together, because then they had space and a time limit. Then they broke up, and sex was about reclaiming that togetherness, fast, urgently, now, before sense and regret and hurts slipped in. It was still hot as hell, but not as pure.

Now, Dean's not sure where the hell there at, but it feels more _intimate_ than ever to have Cas pressing a kiss into the spot on his collarbone he can access with only one of the buttons on Dean’s shirt undone. Logically, that makes sense. They're been more honest with each other now than they've ever been, even if Dean has no fucking idea what they're doing, and they’ve talked every day without the opportunity to reach out and touch. He’s more interested in being _close_ right now than he is about getting off, and that is definitely new and fucking terrifying. 

And still, there's Cas’ mouth under his earlobe, the bolt of his jaw, his lips. Down his neck. Above his heart. Three more of his shirt buttons are undone and Dean has no idea how.

“Cas,” Dean says, voice a little hoarse, “We need to relocate.”

“Relocate?” Cas asks, drawing back to fix him with those eyes, and that doesn’t help. 

“Little brother,” Dean says, “Kid made me promise. So we gotta - bedroom.”

“He made you _promise_?” 

“He made me sign a goddamn napkin contract, don’t even,” Dean says, as Cas detangles himself and smiles, warm and fucking gorgeous and looking a little dishevelled himself. “Sam doesn’t trust us, at all.”

“What happens if you break the contract?” Cas asks, pulling his duffle bag over his shoulders to lug it into Dean’s room. He remembers the way. “Is there some kind of forfeit?”

“I have to order a salad the next four times we go out for dinner,” Dean says, shutting his bedroom door behind him and not quite knowing where to go from here, because now their slowly building momentum has been cut off, and the _direction_ has been made all the more explicit. 

“I am offended you don’t think I’m worth a few salads,” Cas says, through a half smile that Dean wants to see every goddamn day, not this bullshit once every three months thing. “I might ransom myself until you agree to break the contract.”

“Cas,” Dean says, chest aching with how much he fucking _loves_ this dorky, hilarious man, and how impossible all of that is to deal with given every other thing in his life. Cas. “It’s… it’s really, really good to see you.”

The urgency kicks in after that. 

*

“ - I, damn it, Sam's got my freaking condoms.”

Cas draws back to look at him.

“What?” Cas asks, which is a fair enough question, but not what he really wants to get into _right_ this second, because… well. He’s got better things to be concentrating on. Much, much better things to think about. 

“It's - long story,” Dean says, as Cas reaches forward to kiss him again, and that’s distracting enough that he very nearly gets too caught up in it to retain his train of thought.

“Hmm. Well, we're going to need some of those.”

“No kidding,” Dean says, swallows, “You get off me, I can go get them.”

“I can't envision your brother as old enough to be having sex.” Cas says, drawing back, but not far enough away that Dean could actually _move_.

“He was fourteen when we were dating, not eight.”

“Fourteen is young.”

“Okay, yeah,” Dean says, “but that was nearly four years ago. The whole Ruby thing went down when he was fifteen so-”

“Sam's girlfriend Ruby?”

“Yeah, if we have to call her that. I prefer demon bitch, but there we go. Ex-girlfriend.”

“What happened?” Cas asks, still hovering above him, very nearly _naked_ , and sexy as hell. He’s got Dean pinned to his bed by his knees and now he wants to talk about freaking _Ruby_ and that is not what he saw happening this evening.

“Is now the time?” Dean asks, a little incredulous, “Cas, come on. I need to go dig around my brother’s room while feeling awkwardly turned on, last thing I need is anything else killing my buzz.”

Cas kisses him one last time before twisting to the other side of the bed.

“I - two minutes,” Dean says, pulling his boxer’s back on, because being in Sam’s room butt naked is too fucking weird, “Don’t go changing your mind on me.”

“Never,” Cas returns and _fuck_ , that voice.

Sam has left his condoms on the middle of his bed with a goddamn post it note saying _’NOT on the sofa!’_ and it’s funny enough that Dean can’t even be mad at him for not telling him he saw this coming. 

Cas has not changed his mind. 

*

“Do you still run?” Cas asks, after, when he’s curled up under Dean’s arm and Dean’s probably the most content and sated he’s ever been in his whole fucking life. Cas permeates the question by skimming the back of his knuckles over Dean’s stomach and he’s so goddamn relaxed, he didn’t even know it was possible to feel this good.

“I didn’t, and then I did. Started again about six months ago.” Dean says, as if that’s an easy answer. There’s probably all sorts of emotional crap built into _that_ that Cas will read straight through, but right now the concept of keeping some of his barriers up doesn’t feel important. Not tonight. 

“You’ve filled out.”

“You mean I’m not as frigging skinny,” Dean says, fingertips tracing circles on Cas’ shoulder blades, “Well I _eat_ now, so there’s that.”

“I never understood that.”

“Honestly, I still don’t understand.”

“I mean - I _meant_ \- you look good.”

“So you meant _do you work out_?” Dean smiles, looking up at the ceiling as a swirl of affection sloshes around his gut. Cas is the best damn thing. _This_ is almost everything that he wants.

“That’s the same as what I said.”

“No, it aint,” Dean counters, smile broadening. Cas’ hand still on Dean’s hip. “Tomorrow. We, uh, got a standing invite to Bobby and Ellen’s for Sunday dinner. Figured we’d go tomorrow, if that’s - if you want.”

“That sounds lovely, Dean.”

“Awesome. Then I figured we’d watch a movie with Sam Sunday night. Monday’s all clear for whatever you want.”

“Mmm, yes.”

“Kay,” Dean says, reaching out of bed to grab his phone from his jeans pocket and type out _\+ 1 for dinner_ to Bobby. He decides to order the movie of On The Road for next day delivery because he’s a freaking comedic genius and because he wants to see that exasperated look on Cas’ face when he pulls it out for movie night. 

“You should get off your phone and pay attention to me,” Cas says, voice and laced with humour, rough and warm.

“Huh,” Dean says, as he types out _Bitch. See you at Bobby’s tomorrow_ to Sam before reaching over to the side of his bed to plug it in, “Thought I just did that.”

“I’m very needy, Dean.” 

“Uhuh. Good thing we live over a thousand miles away from each other then,” Dean says, twisting round so that he can face him, “What do you wanna do?” 

“Talk,” Cas says, and they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally don't know how this extra long segment of on the road happened, but there we go. Also, this chapter was supposed to be the entirety of Cas' visit... then again, this whole sag was supposed to be finished in ten chapters, not multiple parts, many chapters, so whatchagonnado?


	11. Chapter 11

He sleeps heavily. Not exactly _well_ , but his internal clock doesn’t jolt him awake earlier than he needs to be on a Sunday morning, and he wakes up with the warm heat Cas is projecting next to him and the leftover satisfaction of good food, good sex and good, easy conversation about nothing in particular. He still woke up a couple of times in the night and felt that usual restlessness sneak in, but it feels like he might have actually _switched off_ for the first time in a solid few months. He’s not tired. Indulgently sleepy, maybe, but not tired. Not the bone marrow deep exhaustion that it feels like he drags around, sometimes.

And now he gets the undiluted pleasure of rolling into the sphere of Cas’ warmth and pressing his lips into the smooth flesh of his shoulder.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean makes a noise of acknowledgement in the back of this throat, but doesn't speak. He's too damn comfortable to conjure up _words_ , when he could throw an arm over Cas’ warmth to align them _just so_ instead; the back of his fingers skating over Cas’ stomach, rib cage, hip bone.

“Do you want coffee?”

“No, just,” Dean mutters, eyes still shut, “This. Sleep.”

“Dean, I need to urinate.”

“Nope. I’m… comfortable.” 

“Dean,” Cas says, voice all rich gravel and gorgeous, and Dean’s close enough that he can feel the word reverberate around his chest, and he’s always loved the way Cas says his name. It has its own gravity. Gravitas.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, twisting out of his space and opening his eyes, drinking in Cas shrugging out from under the covers, the curve of his spine as he stretches. He’s fucking gorgeous, obviously. “Wait - - Sam.”

“What?”

“Put on a damn shirt,” Dean says, “Underwear. Somethin’.” 

“If I must,” Cas says, picking his way across the room.

“You must,” Dean throws back, wedging another pillow behind his head to get a better view of Cas dressing, “About that coffee.” 

“Yes, I’ll get you coffee,” Cas says, mouth soft and content, “And then we can continue to _snuggle_.”

“Awesome,” Dean says, still sleep wrecked and too damn sated right now to care that Cas is definitely mocking him, at least a bit.

Dean rubs a hand over his face to push away some of his drowsiness, then leans over to check his phone as a matter of habit. Sam’s text him to say he’s already been in and out and will meet him at Bobby’s later, but that’s it. Cas is the only person who texts him anyway and he’s right here. Dean locks the damn thing and blinks himself awake. Cas. Coffee. A whole day of Cas _here_ , in Kansas. 

He’s dragged himself to the kitchen to make coffee by the time Cas comes out of the bathroom.

“I thought I was on coffee duty,”

“You don’t actually know where all the crap is,” Dean says, “Didn’t exactly get to the tour last night.”

“I’m sure I could have worked it out.”

“Right, I was forgetting about the Yale education. First class education in other people’s kitchen cupboards.” Dean says, as Cas settles in his personal space. “Sam’s out.”

“Out?”

“Internship,” Dean says, “Till noon. Kid works too hard.”

Cas sways forward to kiss him, hand curved around the back of Dean’s neck, just for a moment. He tastes like toothpaste. 

“Your brother isn’t the only one who works hard.”

“Hmm?” Dean asks, too distracted by the _blue, blue, blue_ of Cas’ gaze, and trying to force his limbs to cooperate with the coffee machine. 

“Between your job and the evening classes, you haven’t exactly been taking it easy, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, that was just to keep Sam happy,” Dean says, getting caught in a yawn and, damn, he’s drowsy. His head feels like it’s been stuffed full of cotton wool. “Could probably use cutting some of the weight, cause…”

“You’re exceptionally cute when you’re this lethargic.”

“Shut up,” Dean says, but he can’t quite bring himself to commit to it.

“I can finish the coffee,” Cas says, “You weren’t supposed to get up. Go back to bed.”

“Mm, kay,” Dean mutters, gesturing vaguely at the cupboard with the mugs and stretching. He takes a deviation to the bathroom to take a leak and brush his teeth (if _Cas_ has committed to that, it’s only good manners he should too), before curling back under the still-warm sheets. 

Cas re-enters a few moments later.

He kisses Cas, lazy and artless, after he’s set two cups of coffee down on the bedside table. 

“I’ve never seen you like this,” Cas says, his voice tinged with a pleased curiosity, the hot line of his thigh pressed against Dean’s as he reclaims his coffee and curls his palms around it.

“What, half unconscious?” 

“Relaxed.” 

Dean exhales at that.

“Well _that_ is fuckin’ ridiculous.” 

“You don’t relax easily, Dean.”

“I’m not sayin’ you’re wrong, just that it’s a total shit show,” Dean says, reaching for his coffee and inhaling the scent of it, trying to coax away the residual drowsiness. “I guess that whole year was… one giant mess.”

“Things are better, now.”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes. 

“Me too, Dean,” Cas says, drinking him in like they’re sharing some profound secret, rather than stating something pretty damn obvious. Things are a lot better than where they were. _Every_ part of his life is sixteen times less stressful than that final year of high school, where there was pressure from all angels and he was never more than a couple of moments away for drowning. Cas says it like it _means_ something, though. Like the fact that stability has crept up on both of them has weight attached to it.

Maybe it does. He hasn’t worked that out yet. 

Dean drinks another gulp of coffee, swallows, sets his mug back down on the bedside table so that he can lean over and kiss him again.

He only gets until halfway through tomorrow and for part of that time Sam is gonna be there, watching with them with hawk-eyes as he tries to decide whether he can bring himself to get back on team Cas, and Dean’s head is probably going to give him even less time to be blissed out and boneless before all the background baggage starts pushing in. Right now, he’s not thinking about the fact that _Castiel leaves, every time_ , or the distance, or the fact that he’s hurt Cas plenty, too. He just gets to concentrate on the soft curve of Cas’ bottom lip. His skin. His heddy warmth. 

Cas sucks in a breath that turns out to be a result of spilt coffee, sloshed over the edge of his cup onto the sheets.

“Forget it,” Dean says, as Cas fusses to try and stop it spreading. “Gotta change the sheets anyway.”

“It will stain.”

“Don’t care,” Dean says, as Cas leans over to put his coffee down, out the way, then turns his gaze back to him. 

“Dean,”

“Really, _really_ don’t give a damn,” Dean says, chest aching, “Cas.” 

It’s a rain wreck after that: indulgent, messy, intimate and so goddamn _good_. 

*

“You started going to Bobby’s to work on the car you fixed up for Gabriel the summer after high school,” Cas says, gaze hot on the side of his face as Dean pulls out onto the road towards Bobby’s place. It’s more of a question than a statement. Cas prompting him to fill him in on whatever the hell engagement this Sunday Dinner even is, which is another thing Dean probably should have thought about before all of this.

Given when Dean was in New Haven he kicked up a fuss about going out for a casual meal with Cas’ friends, it's plain fucking crazy that he’s skipped six thousand steps and basically invited him to meet the folks.

Not that they didn’t do that _before_ , but that was the last go round, and they didn’t have a single honest to god parent to club together then, either. And they were kids. Guardians were inevitable at that point. It’s big goddamn deal to do all of this again with his new scrubbed together family, he just didn’t think about it like that until _right now_.

“Yeah,” Dean says, absently turning Metallica down so it’s just louder than the hum of the impala. “Which morphed into Sunday Dinners with Sam, somehow. Now Bobby’s family. Hey, is Gabe’s car still running?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “Better than my car.”

“You think? Your car is a piece of junk.”

“It adequate,” Cas says, “When did Bobby become family?”

“I don’t know, man, it’s…. Not that easy to put a time frame on that kind of thing,” Dean says, rolling his shoulders back as he takes a left, meeting Cas’ gaze in the rearview mirror for a few moments. “I, after that Christmas it became pretty damn clear that Bobby cared a helluva lot more about my welfare than Dad, even. He - I got no idea how much you know about that, actually,” Dean says, grip tightening on his steering wheel, “Can’t remember exactly how much I passed on to Gabriel, let alone know what he passed on.”

“Your apartment was condemned.” Cas says, “You mentioned that in the summer.”

“Right,” Dean says, jaw clenching, a little of his good mood swirling away. This isn’t the conversation he’d anticipated them having an hour ago, when they were still twisted up in Dean’s bedsheets. “The details aren’t important, but uh - they didn’t give me a whole lot of warning. Sam’s pretty sure it was illegal, actually, but it’s not like I could’ve gotten a freakin’ lawyer. I - I didn’t have the money for a new deposit. And I didn’t… I didn’t tell anyone, which was _dumb,_ obviously, but I - I thought I should be able to fix it, and I couldn’t. Wound up driving to Sonny’s with some idea I could park up and sleep there, but it - this was a couple of days before my birthday, and it was fucking cold - and Sonny, Sonny put me up for the night. Sam called Bobby the next day and he just waltzes in, demands I call him next time I’m in a bind, offers to rent me his late wife’s old apartment for dirty cheap until I can save for a proper apartment. I get given hell for not telling Bobby about my heating breaking, and about Christmas, and you, and a lecture about family not ending in blood. You don’t take that kind of crap for granted.”

“Dean,” Cas says, voice on the cusp of some kind of emotion Dean really doesn’t want to get into right now. He doesn’t want another apology, and he doesn’t want to hear anything else Cas has to say about that either. He doesn’t _want_ his good mood to be stolen away.

“Had to stay in a motel as a stop gap, which - I was moving my crap into there when I got your text. That’s… that’s why it took me a couple of days to reply.”

“To my text saying _happy birthday_?”

“Right,” Dean says, flexing his grip on the steering wheel, gaze fixed on the road. “That text.” If they have to talk about this, what he _wants_ is an explanation as to why Cas cracked open the line of communication that small increment, but never quite followed through. He wants to know _why_ Cas didn’t reply. Why it took months for an apology to trickle through, most likely prompted by Gabriel, and another few years for the drunk phone call that kicked all of this crap back up. Cas is silent in the passenger seat, though, and Dean lets his gaze drift back there despite himself. Cas is frowning. Serious. “Cas. What’s up?”

“I am deeply unhappy,” Cas says, “That you spent your nineteenth birthday moving into a motel, after spending Christmas alone, when I -” 

“- that was a long time ago,” Dean cuts across, “A long ass time ago.” 

“It is _unacceptable_.”

“I have a deposit for a new place saved up now, if I need it,” Dean says, “Several times over. It’s part of Sam’s college fund, but it’s there. I’ve got Bobby, too. It’s not gonna happen again. It doesn’t… it doesn’t matter, Cas, and we’re… we’re here,” Dean finishes, pulling into his familiar parking spot in front of Bobby’s house. “So just… drop it.”

“I don’t want to,” Cas says, tension built into his spine.

An hour and a half ago he’d been mouthing along Cas’ inner thigh ( _“you still collecting firsts, Cas?”_ ) and now Dean’s pissed as hell. None of this happened in isolation to the rest of it. This whole thing is a shitty idea that Dean can’t seem to quit.

“Can it,” Dean says, shutting the impala door behind him a little harder than necessary, “I’m cold dead serious, Cas, this conversation doesn’t go anywhere good.”

“That’s your solution to this?”

“Never said jack shit about having a solution to anything,” Dean says, pocketing his car keys and heading for Bobby’s front door. “Didn’t say a damn thing about a solution.”

“Dean,”

“ _Don’t_ ask me what the hell we’re doing, because I still don’t have an answer for you, and this day is too damn good to start thinking about that.”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” Cas says, pulling his coat around him, “It’s - does Bobby hate me?”

“What?”

“You said you discussed me with Bobby that January. Before I walk into his kitchen, it would be good to know whether he harbours a deep grudge.”

“No, he doesn’t _hate_ you. Bobby’s… mildly distrustful, I guess, but he invited you.”

“Similar to you, then.” Dean snorts at that, even though it’s not in the least bit funny. “Sam and Ellen?”

“Shouldn’t think Ellen has much of an opinion either way. Sam… he’s uh, defrosted a bit, but definitely pissed. If he’s not polite I’ll kick his ass, but the chances of him suggesting we go on another freaking bowling date are slim,” Dean says, swallowing, “He’s -- overprotective.” 

“And tall.”

“And tall,” Dean agrees, glancing towards the door, “Are you good?”

“Yes,” Cas says, glancing at the door, “I am ‘good’.”

“Awesome,” Dean breathes out, squaring his shoulders as he heads towards the door. “Looks like we’ve beat Sam here, anyway.” 

Cas inclines his head in acknowledgement, but remains quiet as Dean lets himself into Bobby’s kitchen with a call of “hey, old man.” It’s a little too jovial given how much he’s realised that this whole _Sunday dinner_ was a really crappy idea. 

“Watch who you’re calling old, y’idjit,” Bobby throws back, eyes scanning over Dean’s form before landing on Cas and taking root there. Cas goes completely still under the scrutiny; a statute like figure to Dean’s left. “Castiel. Good to see you again.” 

“You too,” Cas says, a little stilted.

“Sam said he was meeting us here.” Dean says, pulling up a seat.

“Hmhm. He’s running late.”

“And the good lady of the house?”

“Called into work,” Bobby says, “Should be back in an hour, so you could can go work on your damn car ‘stead of clogging up my kitchen while I’m trying to cook. Food’ll be an hour and a half, easy.”

“You’re letting me out of chopping duty? Bobby, you sweetheart,” Dean says, as Bobby’s gaze sweeps back over both of them, then back to Dean again. Cas is still stood awkwardly by the door, but then Cas has always been a little awkward. 

“Get your ass out of here, boy.”

Dean grins and swipes a couple of bottles of soda from the fridge before heading back into the junk yard, nodding at Cas to gesture that he should follow.

“So that’s Bobby,” Dean says, “When he’s not in _Principle_ mode, I mean. Not that he’s a helluva lot different… Swears more, I guess. You can help me with baby mark two.”

“I think I remember you attempting to teach me about cars before,” Cas says, still a little guarded, as he follows Dean back out to one of Bobby’s garages. The electric heater he brought to heat his first apartment lives here, now, and he plugs it in and turns up the heat before passing Cas a soda. “It didn’t go well.”

“Point taken.”

“Tell me about Ellen,” Cas says, watching him with a gaze thick enough that it feels like an extra layer of clothing. “How long has she been involved with Bobby?”

“Not all that sure,” Dean says, “I guess, maybe a year and half. Two years, possibly. It wasn’t really talked about until after Sam took his ass to court and got himself emancipated. I mean, me and Ellen - we weren’t always on the same side of the war.”

“About what was best for Sam?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, sifting through the spare parts that he’d had delivered to Bobby’s this week to see if enough arrived for him to make real progress. “First, I was just wrangling for Sam staying with me sometimes. A night here and there, weekends, holidays. Christmas. And then I tried to, uh, get custody, I guess, and she… well, Ellen’s pretty tenacious about the kids in her care. Honestly, reckon Bobby and Ellen has been on the card for years, but…”

“Bobby wanted to ensure there was someone solely on your side?”

“Something like that,” Dean says, because it's complicated and he never pushed for extra information and Bobby never gave it to him. They don't really refer to the period time all that much: it's easier. It's fine. Sam fixed it. He’s grateful Sam did that, even if it’s tinged with inadequacy. “Then after Sam was officially off her books, Bobby started mentioning her more. Then she was there one Sunday dinner. She’s kick ass and scary as hell. Good for Bobby. She’s got a teenager daughter, mid age between me and Sam. Kinda can't wait till she gets home from college and Bobby has to live with a nineteen year old chick. It’ll warm up in here in a couple of minutes.”

“I’m fine,”

“You’re _shivering_ , asshat,” Dean says, “Get over here.” Cas crosses the distance and folds himself against Dean’s chest, as Dean tries to bleed warmth to him with a hand on his lower back. “You need a better freakin’ coat.”

“It’s not supposed to be this cold in _October_.”

“You okay?”

“Yes, Dean,” Cas says, making no move away from him.

Sam finds them like that an indeterminable amount of time later. Cas is the one who seems to implicitly (and pretty damn accurately) assume that Dean wouldn’t be comfortable at _that_ much physicality in front of Sam and pulls away. The heater’s churned enough warmth into the garage that they should all be warm enough, but there’s still something icy in his gut as he tries to find his footing.

“How was interning, Sammy?”

“It's Sam,” Sam says, helping himself to the soda Dean hadn’t opened yet. “Sammy is a chubby thirteen year old.”

“That is how you will forever be to me, Sammy,” Dean throws back.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam says, his voice bordering on warm, but not quite there. It's a good impression of friendly and about what he would have expected. It’s fine. Good enough.

“Hello, Sam,” Cas says, blinking at him, “Your brother was not wrong about you growing.” 

“Yeah, he was kind of pissed when I got taller.”

“I can imagine,” Cas says, almost smiling as he looks back at Dean, briefly, “I hope you're well, Sam.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, gaze still fixed on him. “Dean says you're doing good.”

“Sam - “

“ - I am,” Cas says, before Dean can finish coming to his rescue, “Things are going well.”

“Good,” Sam says, glancing back at Dean, “Ellen’s back from work. The internship was fine. Busy.”

“Hey - can you pass me one of the new valves? Cas is car illiterate, apparently.”

“Sure, whatever,” Sam says, “Where are they?”

“Uh, big envelope with _valves_ written on the front.” Dean says, shooting Cas a smirk, “And I’m gonna need engine oil and another soda, bitch, given you nicked mine.”

“Bite me, Dean.”

“Huh. That’s how you show me respect, Sam, after everything I’ve done for you -”

“ - here’s your valves,” Sam says, rolling his eyes, “And talk to me when I haven’t been working since seven.”

“Right. My heart bleeds for you, Sammy -”

“- it’s _Sam._ ”

“I’ll get your soda,” Cas says, mildly.

“Okay,” Dean says, “Thanks.”

“You think he’s trying to talk to Bobby?” Sam asks, after the garage door has swung shut behind Cas, “Try and get back into his good books?”

“No,” Dean says, voice hot, “And _cool it_ , Sam.” 

“Hey, I was _nice_.” 

“That was icy politeness at best,” Dean throws back, “I thought you were cool. You were all gung ho about making sure he could visit.”

“Dean,”

“No,” Dean interjects, “We can talk about it after he’s gone, but I need you to be _nicer_.”

“Fine,” Sam says, sitting back on the stool that’s lived in here since Bobby bought him this broken, shell of his old car.

He is, by and large, true to his word.

Sunday Dinner is good. Light, comforting, wholesome; all the people he cares about most in the world splitting the same joint of gammon. Roast potatoes. Carrots. Ellen earnestly asking Cas about Yale. Bobby, Cas, Sam.

*

On the way back from Bobby’s, he drives the long way round.

He drives them to the bridge. It’s his go to place to _think_ , always, even if he’d never articulate that out loud to anyone. It would sound morbid out loud. Messed up. It would be too damn hard to explain that sometimes his thoughts feel clearer _there_ than anywhere else in his whole life. 

And he’s going to… going to say something, big. Not - not _I love you_ , because he can’t do that, heart starts racing if he even _thinks_ it in those terms, but something. Something. That he cares. That he really, really fucking cares. That he’s not trying to mess him around. That he’d give his left arm for this to work out. That he really, really wants to trust Castiel, even if he doesn’t. That he wants him. That he just won’t allow himself to _need_ him, again.

But - 

_He was drunk, and alone, foot flat on the accelerator, head spinning. John Winchester; dead. Car crash. Hit and run. Hit and run and - less than a hundred miles away - a hundred fucking miles while Dean, Dean was fighting to stay alive, rotting in that shitty apartment, in motels, the back of the impala and he - dead. Gone. Even more gone than he was before, and -_. 

The bridge, looming. 

_Sam_. 

He’d hit the break. Skidded to a stop with space to spare. He hadn’t even been close, not really, but his chest was pounding and his head was reeling and he breathed, breathed, breathed.

And then he called Bobby, because Bobby was the only person left he had to call. 

There hadn’t been anyone else left.

“Dean?” Cas asks, the word curled into a question. He hadn’t given any explanation for their stop and the honest one about _why here_ is definitely on the list of things he’d rather not talk about during this weekend, and the sentimental something he’d been aiming for has been stolen away by the memory. Dean eases up his grip on the steering wheel, forces himself to relax, and turns towards him. “What is it?”

“Just,” Dean begins, searching for the right words to capture how _he feels_ , right this second, and coming up blank. “Sam will be there when we get back,” Dean says, then lean forwards to kiss him before Cas can see through any of his bullshit.

It’s a successful enough distraction tactic and gratuitously making out pushes back a little of the emotional weight of the place, giving way to sheer nostalgia.

Sam gives him a royal bitchface when they get back a good twenty minutes after him, and Cas delivers one to match when Dean gets out the freshly delivered movie version of On The Road. He makes no argument against watching it, though, and Sam slumps down at the foot of the sofa without comment, downright affable as he overs Cas microwave popcorn.

It’s a good evening. 

*

Monday morning is spent watching Doctor Sexy curled up on the sofa, not talking about the fact that January is another three months away, and urgency-fueled-sex.

(He owes Sam his goddamn salad, but no chance is he admitting to that; the fuck is he ordering salad, ever, even if he deserves it).

They go for lunch at a dinner halfway to Kansas City, and they don't talk about Cas leaving, or the distance, or their damn relationship status for one hot second.

And then, all too soon, times up.

*

Fuck, but Dean hates airports. Hates the goddamn announcements, the people, the soulless shells of buildings, the planes. He's avoided them successfully enough for long enough that he'd forgotten about the acidic anxiety that pools in his gut and sours whenever he's anywhere near a goddamn departure gate, but now it's churning in his stomach. Damnit.

The first acknowledgement that Dean made about Cas’ departure was after they finished lunch. He said they should get coffee at the airport, which was a shitty idea, but one he's sticking to for Cas’ sake.

Three goddamn months.

January is still a long time away. 

Dean’s brain sticks on the background noise of a plane taking off that he’s almost certain isn’t as loud as it suddenly sounds reverberating in his head; it’s noisy , deafening, roaring in his ears and - _it’s way too hot_ , and his head is -

God, he feels sick.

“ - Dean,” Cas says, voice tilted in concern, hand on his arm. Cas has been talking. Dean’s got no idea what he’s been saying, but he’s been _talking_ and Dean’s limbs have ceased up in the middle of the damn departure floor. He just stopped walking. Starbucks is right there, but he's not confident about his ability to get there. “Are you okay?”

“I - yeah,” Dean says, trying to shake his head back into gear, but there’s this ice cold dread in his stomach and everything feels really far away. “Just, airports.”

“You really have a phobia of flying.”

“Need a minute, then I’ll be fine, I -”

“ - Dean,” Cas says, then there’s hand on either side of his face, thumbs tracking his cheekbones. Dean’s sticky with cold sweat and he’s fucking _shaking_ , but Cas’ hands are warm and solid. “Let’s go outside.”

“I’m _fine_ , man, I -”

“- I have seen you have a panic attack before, Dean,” Cas says, then the soft warmth of Cas’ palm is on his lower back instead, coaxing him back towards the exit, till their spilling out into the late October air. It’s - really fucking dumb, and the second he’s got air into his lungs the shame floods in, too.

He’s not even supposed to be getting on a damn plane. 

“M’ _not_ panicking,” Dean exhales, eyes shut, because that’s not a good reminder, either. Cas sat on his couch as Dean fell apart at the seems. Cas, Cas, Cas. “ _Fuck_.”

“I don’t know what else you would call this,” Cas says, thumb tracing circles on his back, “Dean, you know I’m going to be fine.”

“Logically, yeah,” Dean says, “Goddammit.” 

“Let's go back to your car.”

“You - your flight.”

“I have forty minutes,” Cas says, “Coffee _in_ the airport doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

“Didn’t know _this_ was gonna happen,” Dean mutters, “Okay. Baby.”

He’s feeling a little better by the time he’s gotten back to the car, even if his shirt is sticking to his back and his head feels a little fuzzy.

“Do you need water? ” Cas asks, eyes still shaded with concern as he slips into the passenger seat next to him. Dean inhales a deep breath and grips hold of the steering wheel, tight, until a little more of the fog in his head clears.

“Under the backseat,” Dean says, teeth gritted.

The water helps a little, and then he just feels fucking stupid.

“Sorry.” 

“It’s not of import,” Cas says, “Did something happen?”

“No,” Dean says, voice slightly hoarse, “Not like that, I just - first time we ever flew was right after Mom died. The week after. And now I…”

“Don't do planes.”

“Right,” Dean says, mouth a little dry, nausea still rolling in his stomach and, fuck, he's a mess. “You didn't believe me.” He’s managed to retain that information, at least, even if he feels a little woozy if he thinks too hard about the goddamn _airport_.

“It seemed very…. Convenient.”

“Convenient?” Dean repeats, gaze swimming a little. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

“You first said it when we were teenagers, where you said nothing further than you didn't engage in aircraft. You didn't mention you were phobic. And then - it felt like a very good excuse not to visit me.”

“I really _want_ to see you,” Dean says, “I really - it's the least convenient thing in my whole fucking life.”

“I can see that now.”

“I'm not asking for full trust here, but you should at least - I wouldn't lie about that.”

“Dean,”

“If this was up to me - really up to me, none of this, none of these constraints and Sam and _money_ and distance, I wouldn’t’ve… Things would have been different. They _would_ be different now, but I have to work with reality.” 

Cas’ mouth is a hard line of something, which means that he's not saying what's in his head again. Not that Dean can fucking talk.

“You still look very pale,” Cas says, smoothing a hand over his forehead in concern.

“Yeah, I'm - little dizzy. It's dumb.”

“It isn't,” Cas says, “Come here.” Cas continues, drawing him in with a look and a gesture, till he's got his eyes shut and his head on Cas’s shoulder, under his arm. Cas is the only damn person he's let bestow that kind of physical comfort on him. Only one who he'd let him see this vulnerable. “It is perhaps illogical, but physical emotional reactions to stimulus aren't necessarily supposed to be logical.”

“This therapy one oh one? Because - pass.”

“You never went,” Cas intones, running his hands through his head, pushing it away from his forehead, “To therapy.”

“No,”

“I think it would have been good for you.”

“Cas,” Dean complains, without heat.

“It was good for me.”

“The second go around.”

“It wasn’t _bad for me_ the first time around, I just didn’t have the motivation to engage with it. I was coasting, any residual benefits slipped through the cracks rather than being allowed by me,” Cas says, “Dean.”

“I’m not - you are different. I’m not intending to crap all over that.”

“Good different?”

“That makes it sound like there was something wrong with you in the first place,” Dean says, “And I never… that’s not the way I saw it. It was damn annoying that you wouldn’t _talk_ to me, but I just - wanted you to let me in.”

“Dean,” Cas says, “I’m _trying_ , now, and you won’t let me.”

“I’m working on it,” Dean says, eyes still shut, “I promise.”

“I’m aware,” Cas says, smoothing his hand over his shoulders, down his back, back up to hair.

Thirty minutes later, an alarm on Cas’ phone that Dean had no idea he set pierces through the comfortable quiet. 

“My flight.”

“I’ll walk you to the gate,” Dean says, straightening up.

“No, you won’t,” Cas says, “Dean.”

“It’s - I want to.”

“You’ve only just regained your colour,” Cas says, “I can’t leave if you look like you’re going to collapse.” 

“Maybe that’s my plan. S’all just a rouse to keep you here.”

“Dean,”

“Okay,” Dean says, “Fine, I’ll walk you to the edge of the car park. Call me the second you land.”

“Of course,” Cas says, pulling his bag over his shoulder as he lets himself out the impala. 

They kiss goodbye; a long, warming thing that sends shockwaves of comfort down to his bone marrow. Then he walks back to the impala, alone, and sits in the impala until a good fifteen minutes after Cas will have taken flight.

After, he drives back home to find that Sam is cooking dinner, stirring sauce with one hand with a textbook propper up against the sofa. He gets himself a beer and tests Sam on his algebra homework and tries not to dwell on the fact that even if he has some vague, rose-tinted view of what he wants, he still has no goddamn idea how to get it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Making progresss finaaalllllllyyyy


	12. Chapter 12

“So do you like… video chat?” Jo asks, resting her chin on her elbows as she assesses him over Bobby’s dinner table. It cramped as hell with all of them there and the plate of thanksgiving leftovers that Sam’s still picking at (bottomless freaking pit), while Ellen ‘sorts out the pie’ which means it’s probably gonna be a really fucking great day.

Dean knows Jo Harvelle pretty damn well after the past eighteen months of Bobby and Ellen being sort of together, but he’s not all that sure he knows her well enough for her to be treating him like he’s her brother she can give a hard time too. Maybe _sort_ of, technically, if they stretch the definition of family in a couple of ways, that’s basically who she is to him but… damn. He didn’t think they’d spend such a large amount of Thanksgiving digging into this. Into _him and Cas_ and the ongoing question of a lack of relationship definition. 

He blames Sam.

“No,” Dean says, “We don’t _video chat_.”

“Okay,” Jo says, “Do you send pictures?” Sam makes a face like someone’s shoved a lemon down his throat which would be funny if the reason wasn’t Jo implying he sends freaking _dick pics_ to Castiel. “Not like _that_ ,” Jo says, reaching for another of the leftover potatoes and taking a bite, “I mean _selfies_. The weather. Your dinner.”

“Why in the ever loving fuck would I send Cas photos of my dinner?”

“Couples are _weird_ ,” Jo says, sagely.

“We’re not a _couple_ ,” Dean says, because they’re _not_. Whatever it is that they are doing with the goddamn phone calls and that weekend that already feels like a distant freaking memory, they are not a _couple_. He’s probably emotionally at the point where he could admit that’s what he _wants_ if he could rearrange the whole goddamn universe and erase history, but that’s not exactly on the cards. “And when we _were_ a couple, we sure as hell didn’t send freaking _food pics_.” 

He didn’t really have _food_ when they were dating, but that's not really a point he wants to dwell on in the middle of an honest to god _good_ Thanksgiving. 

“So, he’s your _ex-boyfriend_?”

“I - yeah,” Dean says, stomach twisting painfully. Ex-boyfriend. His _ex_. 

That term sums up his relationship with Cas about as well as calling Bobby his ex-Principle sums up _their_ relationship.

“So you just - text and call. That’s it?”

“Is this any of your goddamn business?”

“Do you _flirt_?”

“What?” 

“They kind of don’t,” Sam chimes in, head tilted in curiosity like this fact has just occurred to him. “They’re weirdly platonic, actually, it’s all _how was your day, when’s your essay due in, how are your friends_ and then they watch TV together, over the phone.”

Fucking _fantastic_.

“I - what do you…? The hell does weirdly platonic, mean?” Dean asks, a lot more flustered than he meant to be over goddamn _dinner_ , but, then he hadn’t anticipated Sam bringing up the watching TV together bullcrap. To _Jo_. In front of Bobby. 

“Uh, Dean, I used to share a room with you when you were actually in a relationship, remember? You’d, you know, _flirt_. A lot of the time you were just trying to piss me off, but now you just… I don’t know, you’re all intense and _soft_ , but you don’t flirt. Not on the phone. When he was here, sure, but not on the phone.”

“I aint _soft_ ,” Dean counters, trying to look like none of this crappy conversation is getting to him.

“ And you're not flirting _exclusively_ with each other.”

“Jo.”

“But when he visits you sleep together?”

“Jo,” Dean says, “Shut your mouth.”

“Hey, Winchester, I’m just trying to work you out. So you’re in a weirdly co-dependent long distance friendship, with benefits.”

“What? No.”

“Do you talk about your feelings?”

“What?”

“You know, those warm and fuzzy things that happen to people in movies. Those. You talk about them. With your long distance fuck buddy?”

“Uh, _sometimes_.”

“Okaaaayy,” Jo says, “Yeah. I got nothing. Your love life is a freakshow.”

“Thanks,” Dean says, rolling his eyes, except it starts a train of thought that has him getting further and further into his own head as he re-reads his last messages from Cas after everyone’s too damn full of pie to talk to each other anymore. 

Sam is not exactly _wrong_. 

*

“ - how _is_ the big brother?” Dean asks, phone wedged under his ear like it _always_ goddamn is these days, shutting his bedroom door with his hip. Dean’s pretty sure that Sam is texting Sarah (his re-official girlfriend) through her traditional suburban nightmare Thanksgiving in the front room and the idea that someone with two whole square parents, four grandparents, aunts and uncles and the kind of family who like to talk about your college options over a mass Thanksgiving dinner would want to be anywhere else kind of makes his gut ache. His bedroom is safer, especially as it puts him out of the way of the potential of Sam launching back into the _define your non-relationship with Cas shtick_ that Dean has really, really had e-goddamn-nough of for one day. 

“Jimmy is fine,” Castiel says, sounding mellow, like sadness has burrowed deep into his voice and started building itself a home there. _Holidays_. Neither of them have ever been much fucking good at holidays. 

“Cas,” Dean says, “What’s up?”

“I -- I am trying to email my father,”

“Right,” Dean says, slumping down on his bed and balling up his pillow underneath his head. “It’s Thursday.” 

This Thanksgiving was actually _good_ in a way that a lot of them haven’t been. Even being grilled by Jo was kind of nice, in a freaking annoying, too-raw kind of way, and that gave way into Bobby’s good scotch and poker and Sam driving them home because Dean’s _definitely_ not under the limit. But…

Like Sam pointed out, this thing with Cas isn’t exactly light hearted. It’s serious and intense _all the damn time_ because that’s always how Dean’s goddamn feelings have been about Cas. Fervent and ernest with both of them too goddamn angsty for them ever get anywhere adjacent to just _fooling around_. Just having fun. 

Most of the goddamn time, being in whatever with Cas has been the exact opposite of fun.

“Yes,” Cas says, “It’s Thursday and it’s Thanksgiving and I don’t - I don’t know whether my Father has contacted Jimmy as part of his making amends act and I _dislike_ Thanksgiving.”

“Huh,” Dean exhales. 

“What?”

“I just - the boy who hates Thanksgiving.”

“You have never given any indication of any warm feelings towards the concept.”

“Right, because all those Thanksgivings you were anywhere near _sucked_ ass,” Dean says, his stomach twisting as Cas’ exhales down the other end of the phone. “Dude, I’m not saying it was _because_ of you, I’m just - Sam’s out there listening to his girlfriend bitch about how much her family all care about her and you’re in freaking Pontiac with two whole freaking families inviting you to Thanksgiving, when that final year of high school mine and Sam Thanksgiving was in a fucking _motel_ and half a burrito each, because Sam didn’t buy my bullshit about having already eaten, and the year after you _walked out and left your key_ right before I had to spend the whole freaking day alone because my oven bust, and then the next year I was so damn crazy with grief about _Dad_ that I couldn’t -- and _now_ I’m stoked as hell to spend the day with my scrubbed together family, even if Sam’s the only blood I have in the whole damn world. You have a _brother_ and you have _Hester_ and Gabriel and -- it wouldn’t kill you to wake up and smell the goddamn roses.”

“I am not _unappreciative_ to what I have, Dean,” Cas says, his words carefully arranged and chosen in a way that makes him want to put his fist through a wall. He has no idea where the hell it’s come from, but it’s here. Frustration. The bone deep kind that’s rooted in all kinds of ugly thoughts and jealousy that he’s never talked about out loud: that maybe both their parents walked out, but Cas got a family and a full bank account and through it the security Dean always dreamed of.

“Bullshit,” Dean says, some kind or restless energy that probably comes from Jo digging into _this_ early thrumming through his skin. “You _never_ fucking understood how good you had it.”

“Dean, if this is about when we were teenagers -”

“ - I would have given _anything_ to have someone Hester and you - you never _saw it_.”

“My _father had just left_ , Dean.”

“You didn’t understand. _Don’t_ understand what it’s like to be eighteen and have _no one_. The crushing weight of knowing that there’s not a damn person in the world who’ll bail you out. That if you don’t find the money to eat then you _won’t_ and you -- you put so much goddamn _pressure_ on me, with your college fees in trust and your future secure --” 

“ - I did not call you for you to drag up ever grievance you’ve ever had on Thanksgiving.”

“You hate Thanksgiving, so why the hell not?” Dean asks, “And you _wanted_ to talk. You wanted to get into this bullcrap, so here we are.”

“I wanted to talk about our _relationship_ , not your belief that my angst isn’t significant enough for you to make allowances.”

“Make allowances?” Dean asks, standing up to pace his bedroom, “ _Allowances_. All I _did_ was make allowances.”

“ _Dean_.”

“You were so -- you got so mad at me about college, Cas, like I had a choice. About me trying to keep my emotional distance sometimes. Like you ever had a fucking _clue_ and you… you put this on _me_ , like it’s my fault we broke up, like I ruined your goddamn life. You thought I made up some bullshit phobia of flying to have a _convient_ way to dump you and you _always_ have an excuse. Every single time you mess up. _I have not been doing very well_. That’s what you told me. That was your excuse for smashing up my goddamn heart, right before I spent Thanksgiving freezing my ass off in my shitty apartment, alone, while _you_ felt your goddamn feelings surrounded by your family who love you. You sat there after _everything_ and told me you were _upset_ like you hadn’t already _broken me_. Like you had any goddamn idea what I was going through.”

“I am _sorry my pain isn’t enough for you_ ,” Cas says, voice icy, “I’m going to email my father. Call me if you want to have a constructive conversation, rather than yell at me about things I’m powerless to change.”

It takes a few moments after Cas has hung up before the fight drains out of his muscles all at once, and then he’s just plain goddamn miserable. 

He misses Cas. He misses him so fucking much.

His hands redial on automatic.

“Hey,” Dean says, voice softer.

“Hello Dean,” 

“Maybe I do kind of hate Thanksgiving,” Dean says, “I - I’m a jackass.A kind of _drunk_ jackass that got ambushed by Jo today. I’m…”

“The word is _sorry_.”

“Right,” Dean says, “I’m really fucking sorry. I got no idea where that came from.”

“It _came_ from your persistent refusal to discuss this when your emotions are not running high,” Cas says, “I’m not ignorant to the fact that you’re mad at me, Dean, but you won’t let me _talk_.”

“Not tonight.”

“When?” Cas asks, his voice still tense.

“Dunno,” Dean says, “Talk to me about this email to your father.”

“No,” Cas says, “I don’t much feel like discussing my father with you tonight.”

“ _Cas_ ,”

“I want to make it very clear, Dean, that I am very aware that your life has been exceptionally hard and that I made that worse on multiple occasions, and I am sorry - deeply - and it _is_ unjust and unfair that you had to handle so much — but it is also unjust and unfair that _I_ had to deal with my father walking out and my existence being uprooted and everything I believe being upturned. Pain isn’t equitable with other pain. We are not playing the who had it worse game. You would win, but that would not make my pain any less valid.”

“Cas,”

“I want to be clear about this because _this_ was the primary conversation I had with my first therapist. About how just because you were hurting more, didn’t mean that I should neglect my own hurts. That my insecurities were still valid and still real.”

“I - I didn’t mean they _weren’t_ , Cas, I just - you don’t know how _bad_ it was. That year.” 

“With all due respect Dean,” Cas says, “Snap.” 

“Okay,” Dean breathes, shutting his eyes, “Okay. Fine. _Fine_.” 

“I still believe that you could have gone to college,” Cas says, voice quiet, “I am _not_ claiming that it would have been as easy as it was for me with me _trust fund_ , but you could have done it. You _are_ doing it between work and looking after your brother. I -- I will be more mindful of my complaints.”

“Don’t,” Dean says, gritting his teeth,” _Don’t_ , Cas, families are pains in the ass. Jo spend the whole day digging at me and Sam’s on other of his superior kicks you… you shouldn’t censor yourself around me, damnit.”

“ _That_ has been part of our relationship from the beginning.”

“That -- we need to break _that_ ,” Dean says, breathing in deeply to buy himself some time to settle on a neutral conversation. “So, uh, Charlie’s back in Kansas for Thanksgiving. Meeting her for lunch tomorrow. Have you -- updated her?”

“No,” Cas says, “It hasn’t come up in our conversations.”

“Seems like there’s a lot of that going around.”

“Dean.”

“I - forget it,” Dean mutters, “I’m a freaking asshole right now. I’m gonna -- sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow and be less of a goddamn douchebag.”

“You are welcome to speak to Charlie if you want.”

“Maybe,” Dean says, “Say whatever the hell you want to your Dad, Cas. You’ve been doing this email thing for months. You shouldn’t…. You shouldn’t censor yourself around him, either, anyone not getting a hundred percent pure Castiel is missing out.” 

“Thank you,” Cas says, voice almost warm, “Sleep well.”

Their conversations are a lot of things, but they’re not _lighthearted_ and they don’t _flirt_ : this whole thing is the exact opposite of just _having fun_. 

*

“You did the long distance relationship thing with Dorothy for a while, right?” Dean asks, after he's finished his burger, looking up at Charlie over his plate of pointless side salad. She looks good; new glasses, short hair. She’s kind of bad ass, as per, and even if yesterday kind of took it out of him, it’s worth Thanksgiving happening for Charlie actually being in Kansas. “What… how did that work?”

“Well, the takeaway point is that it didn't work,” Charlie says, still polishing off the last of her burger mostly because she the one whose life actually changes and has been doing the lion’s share of the catching-up. She’s in that same soon-to-be-graduate phrase as Cas, with a couple of shifts in relationship status and back again since she was last around in the summer. A bucket load of nothing has happened in _Dean’s_ life in comparison. “Why?”

“I’m just….curious,” Dean says, even though it’s completely pointless to try and bullshit his way through this. _Charlie_ can see right through him on a good day and the chances of him getting through this conversation without spilling his guts is limited at best. She’ll work it out. Dean’s pretty sure he’s okay with that, because talking to someone about this who isn’t his freaking brother might be helpful. 

“ _Dude_ , did you meet someone on your road trip?” Charlie asks, slamming her hands down on the table.

He can go with that.

“Uh, kind of,” Dean says, “Yeah.”

“This is definitely _pre dinner_ conversation,” Charlie says, “And you’re… doing the long distance thing?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says, laying down his cutlery with the familiar defensive feeling creeping up on, even though there’s nothing to _defend_. Charlie doesn't know anything about any of this. She’s not jumping to any conclusions about any of it, _yet_ which means Dean needs to chill the hell out. “Honestly, Charlie I haven’t got a freaking _clue_ what we’re doing but, uh, he visited a couple of weeks back, and that was… that was good, really good but, I got no idea how this crap even works. And Sam said this stuff about us being… ‘weirdly platonic’ but I don’t - he’s not _wrong_. We don’t flirt over the phone, at least recently. We just… talk. A lot. And I don’t… I don’t know what I _want_ , but I sure as hell I don’t wanna mess this up because I’m doing it wrong.”

“Wow,” Charlie says, “I mean, okay, that is a lot. Firstly, I’m kind of way surprised at this whole thing. I mean, he’s a _he_ which is unexpected.”

“Charlie,” Dean counters, “ _How_ is that unexpected? It’s not like a secret that I’m into dudes.”

“Duh,” Charlie says, “Tell me again about the last guy you were involved with? Because, you know, I’m about a hundred percent sure you haven’t shown interest in a guy since Castiel, so I figured that was a whole _thing_.”

“A whole thing?”

“An emotional quest back towards dick,” Charlie says, “I figured you’d jump in with a one night stand, not a _whole_ relationship.”

“It’s not a relationship.” 

“And _another thing_ ,” Charlie says, “You’re not exactly _known_ for forming deep meaningful bonds with people you haven’t known forever. Basically, you have trust issues. So. Wow.”

“Charlie,” Dean says, “This character assassination? Not helping.”

“Sorry,” Charlie says, “Although, for the record, none of those things are bad things. They weren’t insults, but, okay. So - you don’t flirt?”

“Nope,” Dean says.

“But you slept together when he visited?”

“Right. A lot, actually,” Dean says, “That’s another thing. It’s like… like him visiting and us talking on the phone all the time are two entirely separate things. The first couple of days after he went back were awkward as hell.” 

“Well, long distance is hard and especially hard for you because you're like… Tactile.”

“You mean didn't get enough hugs as a child?” Dean deadpans, pushing his plate away with a grimace. Just because he _didn’t_ , doesn’t mean he wants to freaking talk about it. 

“You don't do words, Dean, you Han Soloed me the last time I dropped the L word.”

“I know.”

“See!” 

“So this...” Dean swallows, “You don’t think it’s gonna work out?” Dean asks, the words tasting a little ashy, because… because… Charlie’s right. He _doesn’t_ do words and he… he doesn’t much like the word tactile, but they did spend a lot of the time Cas was in Lawrence touching and that was…. Easier. _Simpler_. 

It’s been worse since then. It gets harder with every mile of distance and crappier since Cas actually visited, because the concept of what he’s missing felt a lot more real with Cas in his apartment. New Haven was a whole weird pipe dream. Cas in _Kansas_ , with Sam and Bobby, felt a lot more tangible. Like an honest to god possibility that he couldn’t have.

“Hey, that's not what I said,” Charlie says, voice gentle, “So you really like him, huh?”

“Charlie.”

“Okay. Long distance 101. You just have to work out ways to create… Intimacy. Not like a sex thing, though there is that, but…. do you feel like he's far away when you talk?”

“Yeah. Because he _is_.”

“Right,” Charlie says, “So now you're freaking out that you're, what, platonic over text messages because you're bad at talking about feelings, and then you just sleep together when you're both in the same place?”

“Maybe,” Dean says, “I… I feel like I've been so freaked out about what happens in the future, now it's hit me that I might be fucking up the present instead and… I don’t _want_ to screw it up by accident before I’ve made a goddamn decision.”

“Can I read your messages? Trying to help, not invade your privacy” .

Dean inhales. _Crunch time_. 

Cas said he _could_ talk to Charlie about this and she’s always been pretty damn good at being Switzerland. Obviously the last time she tried to negotiate peace talks tanked, but no one ever blamed Charlie for that. She’s given him unsolicited vague updates about Cas over the past couple of years and he figured she probably did the other way round too, but none of things she passed on ever resulted in _contact_ from the guy, like it had whenever Cas had come up in conversation with Gabriel. Charlie _is_ neutral. 

It’s just that Dean’s pretty sure that he needs Charlie in his corner a helluva lot more than Cas does. 

“Charlie, if I give you my phone can you just…. the overreaction you're about to have? Dial it back a notch, then three more notches, then put it through a not causing a freaking scene filter, then react. Okay?”

“Please, Winchester, I only make a scene when I want all eyes on me.”

Dean flips his phone so that it's face up so that he can unlock it, but he has a new message from Cas up on his home screen. It’s mundane enough, but the very fact that it’s _from Cas_ is enough to give the game up without him saying a goddamn thing. 

“Holy Hermione,” Charlie says, reaching forward to grab hold of his arm. “Our Cas? Angel-blue eyes, with the dreamy voice and the outstanding issues?”

“Charlie,” Dean says, his throat closing up a little. The main reason he’d decided against explicitly telling Charlie was not wanting to deal with _this_ reaction. Even if she was goddamn neutral about their drama, she’s definitely always been _way_ too damn passionate about their relationship. “Come on. Don't act like this is a surprise.”

“But it is! How did this happen? You're not talking! Last time I tried to get you to talk you slept together and he left the continent!”

Fucking _excellent_ summary of that last shit show.

“He - his dad is back in the picture. He told you that right? You two are in touch.”

“Yeah.”

“He - he drunk dialed me after he couldn't get through to Meg, and I was on my road trip so I…drove out there.”

“To Yale ?” Charlie asks, leaning further over the table with the excitement in her voice catching. He probably should have talked to Charlie about this months ago. _She_ was always going to be more into the idea than Sam, or anyone else he knows. 

“And we talked.”

“And screwed?”

“And screwed,” Dean affirms, “I stayed a few days -”

“-You _stayed a few days!!_ ”

“Dial back the volume, Bradbury. And… and we've been talking.”

“Since your road trip? And he visited for a weekend?”

“Yes,” Dean says, “Except, look, Cas hasn't told Gabriel about any of this so … so just, leave that with Cas.”

“You think you're going to get back together?”

“Charlie, I don't know.”

“Is he moving back here after Yale?”

“No, postgrad. Masters program at Yale. Probably. Not here.”

“So, would you move there?” Charlie asks, like it’s _that simple_. Dean gets the similar queasy feeling he gets whenever he thinks about airports. Panic and nausea, because... 

Move to Yale. He can't. There's _Sam_ and... and everything else, and... it's not that simple. None of it is anything like simple. Sam. He has to concentrate on Sam. 

“What?”

“I mean, long distance… It's okay with a time limit. It's not exactly practical long term, especially given your little plane problem. So. If he's staying there, then…?”

“Masters programs only take a year,” Dean says, “Anyway, uh. Yale is on Sam's list, so. I don't know,” Dean says, but he hasn't - hasn't really thought about it in those terms. His heart rate has picked up whenever Sam's talked about Yale, but he didn't…. He hasn't let himself think about it like that. _That_ would mean too much. It would feel too close to the bone. Too much like a commitment he’s not all that sure he can make.

That would be saying he can forget about their whole damn history and he’s just not fucking sure if that’s true. 

“So you would move there, unless it's further away from Sam? “

“Whatever the hell I do next year depends entirely on Sam,” Dean asys, a little too defensive and a little too loud, but… he doesn’t have a _choice_. He’s got no idea whether Sam will actually let him follow him to college, but he’s not… most of his top picks are freaking miles away. Even if he has to put a couple of hours distance between them to appease Sam’s independence streak, he’s not living hundreds of miles away from Sam. He’s _not doing it_. He _can’t_. 

Charlie chews those words over for a few minutes, tearing a napkin up with her fingers. 

“Have you… Forgiven him?”

“No.”

“Dean,”

“No, I haven't. Charlie, I can't.”

Charlie exhales.

“Can I see your messages?” Dean wordlessly unlocks his phone and slides it over to her side of the table. “So, okay, I kind of get what you mean,” Charlie says, which has Dean audibly groan, “But, you can totally work on that! It's not like you don't know how to flirt with Cas, it's just this is all - intense - and you show affection with actions and touch, and you've had that stripped away. So you just need to work out stuff that you're comfortable with. Dean, you don't need to freak out about this. You totally got this. Just - text him right now and say that I say I miss him, and just… Tag something on the end about how you miss him too.”

“Charlie,”

“And maybe pick out something that you miss that I probably don’t. Nothing sleazy. Aiming for romantic.”

“I can't do that,” Dean mutters through gritted teeth, reclaiming his phone and pocketing before any of the rest of his soul can bleed through. He doesn’t _trust_ Cas, dammit. He… he’s got no fucking reason to believe that the _second_ he sends some sappy text that Cas isn’t going to change his goddamn phone number or move to China. It doesn’t _seem_ like that’s gonna happen, but it didn’t seem like it when Cas said goodbye in that parking lot after agreeing to be friends. It sounded like goodbye-until-I-see-you-for-coffee not _goodbye-until-I-drunk-dial-you-three-years-later_. He’s not sure he can drop his guard _like that_ , even if…. Even if they’re making ground. Even if they’ve talked so much Dean’s pretty sure he knows him better than he ever did. Even if Dean’s pretty sure he’s falling into needing him again. 

“Dean, Cas is going to be taking your lead on this -”

And _then_ he’s pissed off again. 

“Why?” Dean demands, jaw clenched, “Because that's gone so well before. He's not a freaking princess, he can, I don't know, take the lead himself.”

“Dean, I love you, but you have commitment issues, and Sam, and you're still pissed. That puts you right in the pace setting seat.”

“I don't know if that's what I want.”

“Have you asked Cas whether he wants to wrap this all in a bow and call this official?” Charlie asks, giving him a look like she _knows_ that he hasn’t. If Cas isn’t going to tell him what he wants, Dean’s not going to go digging for it when he knows he can't handle the answer. Dean’s always been the skittish one with all of this relationship-stuff, throwing Cas whatever breadcrumbs he had available before he gave into it completely but that’s always been because there was so much going on. It wasn’t because he didn’t _care_ and it’s not because he didn’t _want_. 

He just didn’t always have the luxury of choice. _That’s_ what he’d wanted to explain last night, until he’d de-railed into acting like an ass. That Cas has always viewed this crap like there’s been options, when Dean’s never, ever had any. 

Not until recently. 

“Okay, I get it,” Dean mutters, “Is it - is it crazy?”

“ A little,” Charlie says, shrugging a little, “But, you know, Cas is actually doing pretty great. Meg and the rest of his friends. I mean you must have seen it, right? That he has this self assurance, now, and he's like kicking ass at school, obviously. And _you_ have got Sam with you and, honestly, every time I see you you seem a little less stressed, except today, so… I think - maybe not so crazy.”

“Except the distance?”

“Except that,” Charlie says, “Lots of people have long distance relationships though. I mean, I didn't work for _me_ , but it does happen. There’s video chat and snapchat and, you know, regular old texting.”

“Maybe.”

“I feel like I know the answer to this question,” Charlie says, fixing him with another of her paralysing-knowing looks, “But have you _told him_ how you feel?” 

“Parts of it,”

“So you, uh… no L bomb dropping?” Charlie asks, every inch of her expecting to be shut down and watching him like a hawk for his tells. It’s _dumb_ , because Charlie knows. Almost everyone has always known about how Dean feels about Cas, even if he’s never said a damn thing about it. He’s fucking _transparent_ and he always has been. 

“Charlie.”

“But you do?”

Dean frowns at his empty plate. 

“ _Cas_ hasn't said anything like that since… We talked past tense, about that. I mean, Cas did. He _asked_ if I -- if I did before.”

“And what did you say?”

“I - I implied that I did, past tense, but -- what's the point, Charlie? If it's not gonna work out?”

“I think,” Charlie says, pushing her plate away from her, “The point is that Cas probably needed to hear it when he was seventeen, and probably still needs to hear it now.”

“You know what?” Dean asks, gut clenching, “I don’t _give a damn_ what seventeen year old Cas needed from me.”

“Now _that_ is bullshit,”

“I am _done_ talking about this,” Dean grates out, “I’m not -- I’m not writing him a goddamn sonnet about how all of the bullcrap he pulled was a- _okay_ because I never dropped a fucking L bomb when we were _kids_.”

“Okay,” Charlie shrugs, “Not that that was the reason for the sonnet,” 

“I’m not fucking doing it,”

“And I didn’t _say_ it was okay,” Charlie says, “It’s just, Dean, either you can get over it, or you can’t. And if you can then you need to _do it_ rather than punishing both of you over it, and if you can’t… then _draw a freaking line under all of it_ and move on. Really move on, rather than this low-key pinning and man pain.”

“Good talk.”

“And the sonnet was about _intimacy_ anyway, not forgiveness.”

“ _Charlie_ ,” Dean hisses.

“And --- it doesn’t even have to be in iambic pentameter. I think Cas would be cool with regular old rhyming couplets -” 

“Conversation _not_ happening.”

“Even just a straight up _I think you’re pretty and I miss your face_.”

“I’m getting the goddamn cheque,” Dean says, standing up and grabbing his wallet, “Freaking _liberty_.” 

“Okay, okay,” Charlie says, “Changing topic of conversation now, even though you asked for help, Winchester. How is Sam's college application stuff? Did he do the early admissions stuff? He's been pretty, you know, obsessed since, what? Middle school.”

“Preschool,” Dean says, sitting back down warily, “Uh, he's gonna. He'd got his application ready for a couple of em’, then he was gonna decide last minute which to submit, cause they were all - restrictive access colleges.”

“Uh, Dean, the deadline was November 1st.”

“What?” Dean asks because, right, that rings a distance bell. Dean had December in his head, but he can remember November 1st being discussed right after he got back from his road trip and not picked up against since. _November 1st_ was right after Cas visited. Sam didn’t mentioned a goddamn thing, but he must have just _applied_ without freaking telling him, which probably means that he’s pissed Sam off in some way. He’s got no idea by _what_ exactly though, because they’ve been kind of fine. Sam accepted Cas’ visit with a begrudging grace and rolls his eyes if Dean’s talking on the phone too loudly in the kitchen, but he’s stayed resolutely tight lipped about everything to do with Cas since the visit (except over Thanksgiving goddamn dinner). “Dumbass kid never told me what he picked.”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“Sam’s pretty anti-Cas,” Dean says, pinching his forehead, “That… that was about when Cas visited so he must’ve… freaking _awesome_. As if this crap wasn’t complicated enough.”

“Okay,” Charlie says, settling back in her chair, “New, new conversation topic -- how’s work?”

_That_ conversation says successfully Cas free until Charlie has talked him into coffee, and then a post coffee drink

*

Sam's warming up Ellen's Thanksgiving leftovers when Dean gets back from seeing Charlie. It’s fucking ridiculous that after however long of having Sam _living with him_ again, there’s still an almost thrill to coming back home - a secure, honest to god _home_ \- to find Sam making himself comfortable in their apartment. Even after a really _good_ day hanging out with Charlie, it still thrums under his skin.

Even if Sam’s pissed at him for another _unknown_ reason like he freaking always seems to be, these days. 

“You chew my ear off for ten goddamn years, then you don't update me when it comes to crunch time?” Dean asks, stealing a roast potatoes off Sam's plate even though he's eaten more enough, because he _can_. It's still a little cold, but Dean eats it anyway to make some kind of point. 

Sam rolls his eyes and puts his plate back in the microwave. 

“What?”

“Early action college admissions,” Dean says, tracking Sam’s face for some reaction. There’s a flicker of something, which means that it didn’t just _slip Sam’s goddamn mind_. He’s keeping shit from him again, on purpose, as expected. “Did you submit the application?”

“Oh, Charlie,” Sam says, gaze still fixed on the microwave as he punches in another thirty seconds. “Yeah. I submitted the application.”

“I didn't _forget_ , I just thought the deadline was in December.”

“I know you didn’t forget. December - that's when I should hear back,” Sam says, not looking directly at him, and then something in Dean’s head clicks into place. He _did_ ask. Sam’s the one who planted the December concept in his head with a vague comment that maybe didn’t explicitly say the deadline was in December, but was definitely highly freaking suggestive. Sam _knows_ Dean doesn’t know a damn thing about early admissions. Hell, they would still have been homeless at the time he should’ve been thinking about that (not that he ever _was_ going to think about that), and… 

Sam being mad at him and not reminding him is one thing, but actively deceiving him about the deadline is another thing all together. There’s only one reason that Sam would be all furtive and secretive about something like _early admissions_ and it’s not because he was _mad_ at him about Castiel. 

He’s trying to think about _Dean’s emotional state_. Fuck. 

“Where did you pick?” Dean asks, even though he _knows_ and - goddamn Sam - goddamn his stupid, kid brother for just - for doing this. For just _deciding_ for himself, without talking to Dean about it. Without giving Dean a chance of talking him out of his pig-headed scheme. Stupid dumbass kid brother. Goddamnit. 

“Yale,” Sam says, taking a soda out the fridge. His mouth is determined and thin and he doesn't look directly at him, but Dean gets it. That's not decision made. That's not necessarily approval. That’s a _kick up the ass_ to say that Dean needs to fucking think about it if he’s going to think about it. That Charlie has a point. That _Yale_ could be an option. 

Yale.

He might just have _options_.

“I’m… thanks, Sammy,” Dean says, heart in his throat. He feels a little _sick_ , but light. He’ll find out in freaking _December_ whether Yale could be an option for Sam and… that’s permission from Sam for Dean to _ask Sam to pick Yale_. It’s not a guarantee that he would, but it’s… it’s a helluva statement about Sam taking Dean’s priorities into consideration. That’s as close to approval that he’ll probably ever get for his not-relationship. It’s the goddamn gutsiest move anyone’s ever made for _Dean’s benefit_. And maybe… maybe he could make all of this _work out_. 

“I might not get in,” Sam says, “And it’s just early admissions.” 

“Wherever the hell you pick,” Dean begins carefully, “Whatever badass school you get into. I'm… I'm proud of you.” 

Sam half nods, gaze still fixed on his dinner for a long few moments before he looks up at him and meets his gaze head on.

“You too, Dean,” Sam says, in the moment before he reaches for his cutlery and leaves Dean to stew in this strange nervous panic that settled over him like snow the second Sam said the word _Yale_. "Not for Cas, but just -- all of it." 

For once in his whole fucking life, he might have a goddamn choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaccck! Sorry it's been a while, but I have some of next chapter written too so shouldn't be as long this time :)


	13. Chapter 13

On Monday morning his goddamn alarm doesn't go off and his first wake up call is Sam slamming into his bedroom with a barked - “Dean” - and then he's just barely conscious as he falls into the shower, pulling a damn shirt out of the laundry as he stuffs some bread in the toaster.

“Coffee,”

“ Dean, you're _late_ , skip the coffee-”

“--- coffee is not optional,” Dean mutters, fumbling for the pot when his eyes drops to Cas’ lame ass travel mug that the guy forgot to take with him when he came to visit. And… fine. Fine. In the name of _coffee_ , he can grind his teeth together and fill up the damn travel mug. “Okay, okay - Sam, you, school -” 

“Get to work, Dean -”

“Okaaay,” Dean says, accepting the toast that Sam passes him and taking a bite of it dry, opening his fridge with his knee to get the milk. “Freakin’ _Mondays_.”

“Travel mug,” Sam says, stepping round him for his own turn at the sofa, “Cute.”

“Fuck off,”

“You are _adorable_ ,” 

“- _Sammy_ ,”

“Work, Dean,” Sam says.

“Right, right,” Dean says, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door.

He doesn’t stop moving until he’s in the front seat of his baby, when his gaze drops to Cas’ damn mug.

Adorable.

Fucking _Sam_.

Except, well. There is something weirdly intimate about having Cas’ mug nestled in the cup holder in the impala like it belongs there. Like it was for the rest of his drive back from New Haven.

He's already running late -- hence the damn travel mug coffee in the first place -- but he spends a couple of long seconds completely still in his front seat before he decides to _screw_ whatever it is in his head that makes this so goddamn difficult, and takes a picture of Cas’ travel mug in the impala and sends it to the guy with the caption _it's like having you in the car_. It's not quite a freaking sonnet, but it’s as close to _sentimental_ as he can get before he's had caffeine. It's something. It's a statement that he's _thinking_ about Cas beyond their phone calls. It's almost light hearted in a way they haven't managed for weeks. It's a lame ass attempt at following Charlie's advice, but… It is an attempt.

By the time he gets to work, coffee half drunk, he's got a reply from Cas.

_It’s good to know my essential essence can be boiled down to a convenient way to drink coffee._

Dean half smiles as he tops up the mug with more coffee from the pot at work, side stepping Walt before he can get dragged into a damn conversation.

_Yep. Smart ass snark, just got laid bedhead, gravelly charm and coffee._ Dean texts back, yawning through flicking through the list of jobs that needs doing today. He's late enough that someone - Roy, probably - has already scribbled his name next to the kind of job for the kind of customer that makes him want to throw his coffee at them, but it's Monday and it's easy work. He'll take it.

_I assure you I have not just got laid,_ Cas replies, almost instantly.

_Wish you had,_ Dean returns, still halfway through his second coffee. _That usually works out pretty damn sweet for me too._

_I think it's my ‘gravelly charm’ ._

_Smart ass._

_Have a good day at work._

He should start work, really, but he's much more interested in a third coffee and shooting the shit with Cas than this freakin oil change. Goddamn Mondays.

_Got company,_ Dean types out, taking a picture of Cas’ travel mug on top of the piece of crap car that's probably still too good for the asshole that owns it. Oil change and a tune up that he could do in his sleep, but there's something about the messages that are crawling under his skin and making him unduly happy. Maybe it's the caffeine.

_This is unfair. I have nothing of yours to take to the library._

_I'll send you my underwear,_ Dean types out, glancing up to check no one's watching him half-grinning into his damn phone. Rufus isn't in yet and, anyway, Dean works harder than most of them in here. He can take a freaking text break, even if he hasn't actually started yet.

_Assbutt._

_Enjoy your lectures, sweetheart ;)_ Dean types out, pocketing his phone with an almost smile before he finally starts work.

Cas calls him when he's cooking dinner and Sam's ‘doing his homework’ with the TV turned up so loud that Dean can barely hear himself think, but that appears to be Sam's thing right now. Freaking volume. Dean puts the phone on speaker as he chops onions and the conversation _feels_ lighter somehow. It's almost easy, as Cas winds together a narrative about some college party with Meg and Hannah that makes no sense but sounds kind of fun, and Dean clatters around the kitchen over a thousand miles away.

“So, the theme is abstract political theory. Dude, what does that mean?”

“Meg is suggesting we split a six pack and declare ourselves socialists.”

“I - what?”

“She wants to pro-rata the amount in our bank accounts to divy up the bill.”

“Isn't she some Paris Hilton wannabe rich kid?”

“She has a trust fund, yes,” Castiel says, “Essentially she is buying us beer.”

“Well, I can get behind that.”

“The debate is Hannah thinks we should look at wider socioeconomic status, which would likely increase my beer contribution as a white male.”

“College is fucking weird,” Dean declares, even though he can totally see Sam fitting in with that kind of nerdy crap. Totally at home among weirdly intelectual party themes. Maybe _at Yale_. “This for a freaking party?”

“You should have been there for the discussion of how we could attend as communists.” 

“Uh, no thanks,” Dean says, turning the heat up on the pan.

“How was your day?”

“Okay,” Dean says, even though it’s been much better than that. He’s really goddamn enjoyed their steady stream of text messages all day and that’s somehow sunk under his skin and made his really freaking mundane Monday kind of awesome, he just doesn’t know how to _voice_ that. “Got yelled at by two guys today who don't know a damn thing about cars and tried to blame me for the fact they're shitty drivers, and _then_ I got the electric bill from hell - it's freaking cold for Kansas - and… I'm cookin’ casserole. I, uh, feel pretty good about - about today.”

“Anything in particular?” 

Freaking _Cas_ who knows exactly what he’s talking about. That much is packed into his voice. 

“You digging for something, Cas?”

“No,” Cas says, lightly, “I'll expect my underwear delivery shortly.”

“Ha,” Dean says, tipping his onions into the pan and heading back to the fridge for the rest of dinner. Vegetables, for Sam. Chicken. “You know... Charlie had opinions.”

“Oh, I am aware,” Cas says, ruefully, “I was thoroughly facetimed and told off when I arrived back at Yale last weekend.” 

“Told off?” Dean asks, mouth a little dry. Maybe Charlie _isn’t_ on his side, or neutral, like she’d seemed over that dinner and coffee and drinks. Maybe she told Cas to _get out_. 

“For the lack of update,” Cas says, “Although, this seems unfair. She's had three flings since she last updated me about her love life.”

“Yeah, but that's… Different. Didn't sound like any of that was - serious. _Significant_.”

“This is…. Significant,” Cas says, slowly, like he’s scared of chasing Dean away just repeating Dean’s own words back at him, which isn’t exactly surprising. Dean’s not known for outbursts about his feelings and… and they’ve slipped back into _intense and serious_ for the first time today, but maybe that’s okay. “Serious.”

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, “I am heart attack serious about this, Cas, I’ve just go no freaking idea what _this_ is.” 

Whatever 'this' is, though, it's getting better. 

*

_This paper is dull. Entertain me._

_What's it about?_ Dean types out, with the hand he’s not currently using to devour his spag bol. He’d feel bad about half ignoring Sam while they eat, but Sam’s so freaking engrossed in his book that Dean’s pretty much eating alone, anyway. 

_Aristotelian Metaphysics in relation to causation and potentiality._

_Sounds hot._

_You're mocking me_

_Dude, anything in your voice = hot._ Dean sends, setting down his cutlery to kick Sam under the table.

“You want a drink?”

“Uh, no,” Sam says, glancing up for the barest seconds, before his gaze drops to Dean’s phone. “How’s Cas?”

“Bored,” Dean supplies, flicking his phone onto loud before heading the fridge to get a beer. It pings with Cas’ reply before he’s resumed eating, and as replies go, it’s long and wordy and almost definitely a goddamn essay quote. Dean’s got absolutely no idea what the fuck that collection of words all lined up together is supposed to mean (there’s a lot of bullcrap about different senses of the word ‘sameness’), but he can _definitely_ imagine Cas’ rough timbre all over every word, and it would be freaking hot.

Dean smirks into the spaghetti bolognese he's distractedly eating and decides that it's fucking hilarious and he's going to just freaking do it, then sends Cas the eggplant emoji.

_I just got chucked out of the library for laughing._ Cas texts back, a good five minutes later when Dean’s finished the rest of his food and spent a little too long waiting for the reply to roll in. 

_You're not allowed to laugh in the freaking library?_

_I spilt my coffee._

_God, you're awesome._ Dean types out, _Man, I remember when that kind of reference wasn't in your vocabulary._

_Meg explained it to me._

_I so need the context for that conversation._ Dean sends, flushing a little as Sam catches him smiling at his phone and raises an eyebrow at him.

“Shut up,” 

“I just saw you text an _eggplant_.”

“You need a haircut, little brother,” Dean says, abandoning the table and his plate to head for the sofa. “And, fuck you.”

“I’m not washing up your plate, jerk.”

“I cooked, you asshat,” Dean throws back, as the entire story of Meg explaining every single freaking emoji in the catalogue pings onto his phone. 

“At least put it on silent while you’re freaking _sexting_.”

Dean turns his phone up louder.

Serves him fucking right. Weirdly-platonic, his ass. 

*

_Meg is dragging me to another party tonight._

_May not understand Meg, but I gotta say she's good for your social life. This one gotta theme?_

He gets a picture of Cas, with Meg and Hannah, with gold swirls of facepaint for no goddamn reason and, fuck, does Cas look good. He looks _good_. He hasn't shaved for longer than Dean's ever seen (or, maybe the need to shave increased post seventeen, but he sure as hell doesn't remember that peach fuzz), and there's that exact curve of his lips and his _eyes_ and his fucking eyebrows curved into an inquisitive _huh?_ that Dean's always loved, always, even before he'd apply the world love to Castiel generally. Cas is fucking sexy as hell, with the top button undone on his shirt, all wrinkled and creased, the hint of a collarbone under the fabric.

Fuck. Fucking _damnit_ he needs January to hurry up so he can run his lips over the strong curve of Cas’ throat. He needs January to happen _now_ so he can undo that goddamn shirt and -- trace a thumb down his chest, following his ribcage, down to the soft skin of his stomach and -

Okay. Okay, then.

_You are so fucking gorgeous_ he types out and sends before he can overthink, because Cas deserves to know exactly how undone Dean is by a group selfie that one of Cas’ friends definitely insisted on, and because right now he's too busy staring at Cas in this damn picture to give a damn. This is how Cas looks right now. A thousand miles away, maybe, but that's what his hair looks like. His eyes. His jawline. _Digging the peach fuzz._

_Really?_

_Dude, what I'm thinking about right now in relation to THAT stubble would clear up any doubt. You look good, Cas. Nice shirt. Nice freaking everything. Fuck, I wish you were here so I could straighten your damn collar._

_This has been a better reception than I expected._

_You should get on a plane right now._ Dean types out, which is bolder than he usually goes when they do this texting-crap, but there’s been a definite shift in the way they’ve communicated with each other since Thanksgiving. Dean’s got no idea whether Charlie knocked loose something in his head, or whether the inane gesture with the travel-mug has somehow sparked off a little of that intimacy that Charlie mentioned they should try and create, but it's awesome . They’re in a really freaking good place right now.

Good enough that Dean’s kind of okay with putting himself out there, even if it’s more about him being a little undone and a _lot_ frustrated with this distance bullcrap than his actual feelings.

_I want a picture_

_What?_

_Of you,_ Cas types out, almost instantly. _I've nearly forgotten what you look like_. There’s something about the grammatical construction, the speed and the tone of the message that makes Dean pretty sure that Cas has been drinking already, which makes sense. Meg is into pre-drinks. The guy’s probably been sipping straight vodka since someone got out the gold freaking face paint, which sounds about right to Dean. No way would he let anyone graffiti his face unless a lot of booze had been involved. 

_Perky nipples. Adorable._ Dean replies, mostly to try and head him off. 

_Dean, I'm serious. I want to see you._

_Then get on a damn plane_

_Dean_

_Never taken a selfie in my life, Cas, and I'm sure as hell not asking Sam to take a picture for me._

_I know that,_ Cas writes out, then Dean gets the three dots for a fucking lifetime before _but I have been informed this is what people who do long distance do_ arrives on his phone. Dean would bet good money that Cas initially typed out ‘who do long distance relationships do’ before he went back and policed himself. Dean’s not really sure how he feels about that.

It does feel more like a relationship than it has done for a while. 

_You been talking to Jo?_

_Charlie._

_Freaking Charlie._

_Dean, I'm not asking for a ‘dirty pictures’, I'd just like to see you._

_Pretty sure sending you a picture of my dick would feel less weird._

Cas replies with a _I can think of worse things to receive_ almost instantly, which is enough to cement his theory that Cas has definitely been drinking. Just a little. He’s not usually that goddamn bold. 

Not that it isn't a little hot. 

_Dude,_ Dean types out, with nothing further. His heart is racing a little at the idea- not of sending a picture of his damn dick, which is definitely _not_ happening, but…. Of sending Cas a picture of _him_ , like one of those couples.

Couple-couples.

_It doesn’t matter if it makes you uncomfortable_ he receives, before he’s had a chance to really make a decision either way. Cas is giving in way too easily for this to be not a big deal, though, and he’s halfway to a damn party asking for a measly fucking selfie from so, so far away and….

It shouldn’t be that hard. Maybe they should freaking face-time. _Skype_. Maybe that would feel less weird, but Dean’s got no idea how that crap works on his phone - or if it even _will_ , given it’s the same busted piece of junk he’s had since he was seventeen - and that’s not practical right now. 

Dean turns his camera on and immediately feels awkward as hell. The only thing he can think of as he fumbles around with the camera button is what Sam would think if he saw Dean's freaking selfies in his phone but…. Okay. Cas wants to seen him. What he looks like right now, and Dean can get that.

_Intmacy_. Creating intimacy.

Dammit, he looks like shit. Awkward and tired and antsy as hell. He looks exhausted and uncomfortable and he has no idea how anyone _does this_.

_What am I supposed to do with my face?_ Dean sends him, heart beating oddly fast considering all he’s done is consider sending Cas a photo of his damn face. It shouldn’t really be a big deal.

_I like it when you smile_ Cas returns, which is so painfully fucking sweet that Dean doesn’t really have a choice. He points the camera back in his face like it’s some kind of lethal weapon, and tries to rearrange his face into how it looks when he smiles _at_ Cas. It turns out crappy and a little awkward but… whatever, he's going to send it. Cas thinks he's hot. Dean’s got a lot of prior experience that says that and he _asked_ for the picture, so...

Dean's whole everything flushed as he watches the dots on his phone. Fuck. Fuck.

_You are unreasonably attractive, as always,_ Cas sends, and Dean lets out the lungful of air in a rush, then he’s fumbling through a stream of messages that flood in all at once. _I like your hair that length, before you remember to cut it._

_You've been running more._

_Your shoulders, Dean. Your shoulders._

_I have always adored your mouth._

Dean’s skin hums with something light and good and easy. 

_Quit objectifying me._ He returns, but his pulse is still a little higher and he’s smiling as his phone like a total fucking idiot because… damnit, it’s nice. It’s just plain, straight up nice. 

_You are ridiculous and beautiful. Thank you for the picture._

_You're the fucking ridiculous one. Enjoy your party._ Dean sends, mouth quirked up into a full on smile as Cas sends back a fucking heart like they’re those people. 

_Intimacy._

*

It’s _good_. All of it is _good_. Everything with Cas is easier, somehow, like he can breathe when they’re having a conversation (and maybe he needs to send Charlie a fruit basket, or something) and like this not-relationship is making him honest-to-god-happy. He’s spending less time frustrated about the distance, even if December is goddamn dragging and way, way too far away from January, but that’s… manageable. The good kind of missing someone. Not that kind of missing someone that feels like an albatross. Not an additional _weight_ to drag around, but some spark of good that he gets to keep.

More like it felt right after the road trip, less how it felt a few weeks down the line. 

“It’s late,” Dean says, flicking his laptop shut and leaning back on one of his arms, Cas on the other end of the phone - as fucking always - in his bedroom. He’s got no idea how long they’ve been talking, except that it comes off the back of a day of exchanging messages about dumb excuses Cas could use not to do his latest assignment whenever he got to take a break. A _good day_ , basically. A day where they just watched another episode of Dr Sexy over the phone. The kind of the day where he gratuitously flirted down the phone in the kitchen until Sam told him to _get a room Dean_ with a look in his eye that he was almost pleased about Dean returning to something normal. “You should sleep. I should sleep.”

“Dean,” Cas says, voice catching on the edge of something, deep and commanding, “I love you.” The words send the cogs turning in his head scratching to a halt, and he stills. He also doesn't fucking say anything, not even something moronic like ‘thanks’ or ‘I know’ but, just, silence.

Total silence.

“Dean,” Cas says. “If you _hang up_ on me I swear -”

“ - I can't have this conversation over the phone when you’re a thousand miles away.” Dean says, all in a rush, his tension levels racketing so fucking high he can’t even _breathe_. This conversation is not what he signed up for. This conversation is _not_ what he was anticipating on the back end of a innocuous Tuesday when everything has been slipping into a rhythm close to easy. 

“What conversation are you referring to?” 

His voice is barbed and a little sharp, which means Cas is totally goddamn serious about having this chat _right now_. About digging into some of the pile of stuff that they _do not talk about_ , with the dogged determination that Cas adopts. He is not going to take any of Dean’s bullshit about this.

Cas _loves_ him.

“This. Talking about _this_ about _that_ word. I can't do it. Not when you're… you’re not even _here_.” 

“This can't be a surprise to you.”

“M’not saying I'm _surprised_ ,” Dean says, sitting up. He flicked his light off before he turned off his laptop and now he’s alone in the dark with the gravity of Cas’ voice washing over him. Of course he’s not fucking surprised. He’d have been more surprised if Cas solemnly declared the opposite, but that doesn’t mean Dean is even a _little bit_ equipped for this. “ I'm saying…. I’m saying that _I can't_.” 

“Can't reciprocate?”

_That_ is ice cold pure fucking dread.

“No,” Dean says, barely breathing, eyes slammed shut. “Not that. Damnit, Cas, I don't...I don't say that word to people. I don't say it about people. The last person I said that to was my Mom the day she died and I'm _not_ having this fucking conversation when you're over a thousand miles away. I can’t do it. I fucking _can’t_.”

“Dean,” Cas says, frustrated, “I _am_ over a thousand miles away because I live over a thousand miles away… and you _told me_ you used to love me.”

“I implied it.”

“Dean.”

“I - dammit, Cas, I’m not trying to take that back. I’m not -- I’m not saying _anything_ but I just -”

“ - I _asked you_ and you said ‘I drove eight hundred miles three years after the fact. What do you think?’ What conclusion were you expecting me to draw?”

“ _That one_ ,” Dean says, “That one. That’s what you were suppose to think, I just - this is a goddamn problem for me, Cas, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Dean, I can’t wait for you to be thirty before you’ve worked out how you feel and to deliver that packaged as an implication after a _direct question_ that you then refuse to acknowledge in conversation again. I am not asking you to tell me how you feel _now_ , but I won’t allow you to prevent me from telling you how _I feel._ ”

“It didn’t take me three years to work it out.”

“What?”

“Cas I -- I. What do you fucking _want_ from me, here?”

“You knew that you loved me at eighteen,”

“Seventeen,” Dean grates out, through a clenched jaw. 

“You let me say it _all those times_ without a simple _same, Cas_. Why? Why did you do that to me?”

“Because -- all the things I just said, Cas, because what was the _point_? You were _leaving_. You were chewing the bit to get to damn college and that - and --- what would it have helped?”

“Me,” Cas says, “Do you know what it feels like to tell someone you love them and they ask if you want to watch a film? To say _goodnight_ in response?”

“No,” Dean exhales, shutting his eyes and trying to suck in a breath. _This_ is one of the things on the long list of crap Dean tries not to think about, because for all the things that are definitely _on Castiel_ , this is on Dean. He _is_ a piece of crap for that. “No, I don’t, Cas.”

“I’m _upset_.” Cas says, his voice compelling and earth-shatteringly honest and under-fucking-stated. Cas is a little more than _upset_ , but he’s never been all that good at talking about the depths and intricacies of his emotions. On this topic, Cas has ever right to be upset, because he didn’t --- he didn’t _think_ about how that would feel for Cas, because it was _too much_ to deal with and… and it never, not for a minute, felt like it would help anything or change anything about their _reality_.

“I -- I nearly said it,” Dean says, turning over and wedging his phone closer to his ear. His lungs hurt. “A long time ago, but you - you cut me off. You thought I was going to say something dumb and I just…”

“Something are worth _interrupting for_.” 

“It was all _wrong_. We, we’d just agreed we were going to break up - “

“ - I did not _agree_ to anything - “

“ - okay. Ancient fucking _history_.”

“ - _none of this is fucking history_. My teenage self needed to know that information. I needed to hear that from you. Damnit, Dean.”

“I don't talk about this, Cas, I can't -”

“You have never told your brother that you love him?” Cas asks, “You've never said that to _anyone_ since your mother died?”

“Sam knows exactly how I fucking feel-”

“- Well I don’t,” Cas says, “I don't know and you never even _explained_ this--- this aversion to those particular words --- you just didn't say anything _at all_.”

“You don't believe me. This is like the crap with the plane phobia.”

“I believe you,” Cas says, words sharp. “You wouldn't use your dead mother as an excuse for anything, I just don't think it's good enough.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” Cas says, “I am not suggesting that I understand what that loss must have been like, Dean, but telling someone else that you love them doesn't demean you saying that to your mother. If you hold your feelings hostage for your entire existence because of _that_ , you will lose out, Dean. Telling someone that you love them is an incredible privilege.”

“Right, because for you it's always gone so fucking well.”

“Feeling is a privilege.”

“Feeling _sucks_.”

“I do not regret any single time I told you that I loved you, including this one, including when you told me I was _wrong_ and including every other occasion. Perhaps it felt like I was piercing my gut with a blunt knife and twisting it when you didn't returned the sentiments, but it was _worth it_ , but I'm not talking about _me_ , this is… beyond _our_ relationship. This is about _you_.”

“I’m not doing this bullshit therapy with you over the goddamn phone.”

“ _Regardless_ of how you feel about me, you should tell your brother that you love him. You should tell _Charlie_ you love her. You should tell Bobby and Sonny, in exactly those words, because you are _not_ Han Solo, Dean. I have always admired your capacity for loyalty that _stems_ from your ability to love despite all your losses and that you have been through. That is a _good thing_ about you and you shouldn’t… you shouldn’t hold back that part of yourself. Sometimes, _implications_ is not enough.”

“Okay,” Dean exhales.

“I am going to go to bed.”

“Wait,” Dean says in a shaky breath, because Cas sounds wrecked. He sounds fucking _terrible_ and… it had all been going so well. They’d been having _fun_. It had been smooth and good and Dean had been so goddamn _happy_ , and… and Dean just broke it. Again. “Cas, I -- I get that you’re upset.”

“No, you don’t,” Cas says, “Because...I believed that you never loved me, that you _couldn’t_ because I was broken and awkward and _wrong_ and I believed that if you… if you didn’t love me, then my father couldn’t have, and that _I was the problem_ and I had to fight my own fucking head to undo that -- and I _didn’t have too_ , because you _did_ , you just didn’t say anything.”

“Cas,”

“It was so… needless,” Cas says, “I am not upset with _you_ , or at least -- I don’t blame you. I … I didn’t _know_ about your mother. I don’t think that is a good enough reason, but I …. I’m just _sad_ , Dean. I am very _sad_ about all of this.”

The only thing Dean wants to do right now is reach out and hug him, tight, close. Wrap his arms around him and bury his face in the warmth of his neck, but Cas _isn’t here_. He doesn’t get body-language and physical-touch as primary languages, he just gets words and the cold, empty dark of his bedroom.

“I’m sorry,” Dean mutters into the darkness, because he is. He is so fucking sorry and if ever there was any doubt about Dean still being totally in-fucking-love with the guy, the way Cas sounding like that makes him ache down to his bone marrow would clear that right up. “Everything … was so goddamn hard back then. I didn’t… I didn’t have it in me, but it - none of it was ever supposed to make you feel like _that_. You weren’t ever supposed to get hurt. You have to know that, Cas, that I would never have... that I didn’t want that.”

“I appreciate the apology, but you still say that you _can’t have this conversation_.”

“You’re… you’re so far away, Cas.”

“I am aware,” Cas sighs.

Dean shuts his eyes and balls his spare hand into a fist, jaw clenched.

“You know I do,” Dean says, through his clogged up, painful throat and the feeling like his lungs are seizing up. This is as close as he can go. This is all he’s got. “I gotta - I gotta have made it obvious. You have to _know_ , anyway.”

“Goodnight, Dean,” Cas says, voice firm but gentle, that sends another shiver of dread down his spine.

“Night,” Dean says, mouth ashy, and then he’s really _really_ alone, staring at his damn phone like it’ll provide any answers.

It shouldn’t be this hard. None of this should be so fucking _difficult_ but… but, Cas, sounding like _that_. His voice all broken and cracked with years old grief and… and Cas being love with him, all the way in Connecticut, and Dean’s whole being buzzing with this nauseating, paralysing tension. It’s late. He should sleep, but the concept is laughable. 

Dean stands up and rubs a hand over his face. Paces the space between his bed and the wall. Tries to push Cas’ words out of his head and someplace where he doesn’t have to think about them.

_If you hold your feelings hostage for your entire existence because of that, you will lose out, Dean._

It’s not really about Mary Winchester, it’s about being so fucking terrified of being that vulnerable that even thinking about it feels like he’s being flayed alive by his fucking feelings. It was never _right_ , because Dean was always lying about something - about where he was sleeping that night, about eating food, about how he felt - and then they were going to break up, and pinning a label on it out loud only ever felt like it would make him worse. That if he said out loud _I’m in love with Castiel_ then it might just fucking kill him, the next time he smashed his heart up over their complicated, messed up, disaster of a goddamn relationship.

It nearly killed him last time, anyway.

He doesn’t _trust_ Cas. Not to stay. Not to stick out and come through when Dean needs him. Not to somehow make any of this work.

Dean calls back anyway, shoulders clenched as he stands next to his bedside table in the dark. Cas picks up on the second ring and for the first thirty seconds of the call, Dean’s lungs stop working and he just _stands there_ in silence. Fuck. _Fuck_ , fuck, he can’t -- he can’t do it -- because Cas _leaves_ , and Dean is stuck here, always, with no options and no future, but Cas is sad - upset - and Dean did that because of a couple of measly goddamn syllables that he basically already said, anyway, in a different form. 

It’s _important_.

“Dean -”

“ - I love you,” Dean says, the words falling out of mouth in a tense rush that makes every single one of his internal organs want to implode. His muscle memory is rejecting the mere concept of the words, but he did. They came out a congealed, rushed mess, but he said them. He said _it_. 

“I know, Dean,” Cas says, voice warm like honey. Sweet. Good. Dean’s ears are roaring like he’s about to fucking pass out, but that’s fine. “I love you too.”

“Okay then,” Dean says, then hangs up and drops his phone back onto his bed. He wants to run the fuck away. He wants the adrenaline he’s choking on to dissipate. He wants, more than all of it, for Cas to live close enough that Dean could fall into his orbit until he’s had a chance to _calm the fuck down_.

Cas calls back seven minutes after that and Dean nearly has a goddamn heart attack in his rush to answer it. 

Cas says “phone sex” in lieu of any other kind of greeting and Dean's stomach nearly drops out. _Nothing_ about this evening has gone the way he anticipated it to go. Their nice, simple rhythm is shot to fuck, because Dean’s a hot mess who just dropped an L bomb in the middle of the world’s shortest phone conversation, and now it’s _late_ and Cas… Cas wants to talk about goddamn phone sex. 

“What?” Dean gapes into the dark.

“If you were here, I would kiss you until you stopped overthinking, but I can’t,” Cas says, “I am _working_ with what I have available at my disposal, which is an unlimited call plan and the fact that you’ve previously expressed that you find my voice ‘hot’. We have been doing this for nearly four months and I think not exploring the concept has been very remiss of us.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, sitting down on the edge of his bed and forcing himself to breathe, “And how would that go?” 


	14. Chapter 14

_You look hot today._

_You have absolutely no basis for that comment given you haven't seen me._ Cas replies, not quite instantly, but quick enough that Dean’s still looking at his phone and waiting for his response to roll in. Dean’s squashed into the world’s smallest booth in the world's fullest coffee shop while he waits Sam out and Cas replying quickly is _definitely_ instrumental in Dean not abandoning Sam to the hoards of Christmas shoppers. 

_Pretty confident about it._

Cas sends a picture of himself looking freaking miserable in six thousand layers of clothes. He’s goddamn adorable in his scarf and his trench coat (even though it looks a lot like the guy’s inside. The dude runs cold, always, and winter has well and truly hit now). 

_See? Hot_

_You're ridiculous._

_You're ridiculously hot ,_ Dean texts back, taking another sip of his coffee. _Damn, I miss you today._

_You're very sweet._

_I think you mean badass manly and hot_

_You're in a VERY good mood._

Cas has a point. He is in a pretty good mood considering he’s at a freaking shopping mall in goddamn _December_ , because apparently they now have enough people in their lives that buying Christmas presents is a full on expedition. Sam has friends that _buy each other Christmas presents_ and a girlfriend and Dean’s got a work Secret Santa and they’ve both got Bobby and Ellen and Sonny. They have _people_ and enough money in the bank not to skip out on the whole deal, so... Christmas shopping. 

_Yep. Got you a kick ass Christmas present. Sam’s trying to find something for Sarah and sucking, big time._

Seeing his little brother all stressed out over buying his girlfriend a damn Christmas present is all kinds of strange. Sam’s this weird mixture of still kid-teenager and almost independent who's invested enough in his relationship to start snapping at him in the middle of Hot Topic for being unhelpful (like Dean _could_ even help with the unknownable answer to what to buy a seventeen year old girl for Christmas). The whole thing’s weird. Really goddamn weird. 

_You're shopping with your brother?_

_He told me to fuck off when I said he should get Sarah condoms, so NOW I'm drinking coffee while Sam is shopping._

There’s a relatively high chance that he deserved being banished from the rest of the shopping trip, but it’s his right as a big brother to be annoying as hell. Plus, he’s spent half his goddamn Saturday traipsing around shops trying to find some appropriate Christmas present for _Jo_ so he definitely deserves a freaking coffee break. And some of Bobby’s Christmas-present good scotch when they back home. 

_Busy?_

_Like church on a Sunday. Not too busy that the barista didn't hit on me and upgrade my coffee to Christmas for free. Cause I'm badass, manly and hot._

_Nothing screams macho like a gingerbread latte._ Cas is goddamn awesome and funny and way too far away, but January isn’t that far away anymore. They’ve got to get through half of December and Christmas first, but _then_ Cas is due to visit for a significant length of time. He said he had two weeks free. Two whole mother-fucking _weeks_ and Dean’s pretty sure he won’t get all of that time, but he’ll get _some_ of it which means this whole thing is sounding a lot more doable. 

_Tastes like ass,_ Dean types out, even though that’s not exactly true. It’s not _coffee_ but it tastes like some candy-cane, sugar-drunk nightmare of deliciousness, but there’s no chance in hell that’s he’s going to admit that he likes it. 

_So you're enjoying it then ;)_

_Cinnamony ass._

_Sounds delicious._

Dean snorts into his coffee, glances up to see if anyone is looking at him smirk into his cell phone, then turns his attention back to shooting the shit with his _not_ -boyfriend. 

_Such filth should be banned._

_I don’t believe in censorship._

Dean dips the mini gingerbread man Jenna-the-barista gave him into the cream on top of his latte and tries to convince himself that it’s not fucking mouth-watering, but instead an assault on the concept of coffee. Gingery abomination, with cream. And curls of chocolate. 

_Hah. It okay if I give you your present in January?_ His original plan - after it had occurred to him that he probably should get Cas a Christmas present, given that they’ve been talking for close to four months and they’re definitely doing _something_ \- was to order something straight to Cas’ place. He still figured that would be the most practical approach before Sam posited going to the actual shops, and then he was queuing up for the cash desk with his wallet in his hands. 

_We’ve never done Christmas presents before_. 

_Dude, YOU don’t have to, it’s just the first time I’ve had money to buy you a present. You can just give me Christmas head in January or whatever._

_And they say romance is dead. I have bought you a present already._

_So no Christmas head? :(_

_Birthday sex. The works,_ Cas returns, which is the exact definition of promising. He might get two whole weeks of Cas. Of being able to nudge him with his knee while they’re talking, of being able to read his facial expressions, of freaking _birthday sex_ and necking and making out and ‘the works’. 

_Which is?_

_You're in a shopping mall. We can discuss this later. In depth._

The addition of this whole phone-sex thing into their not-relationship has been a freaking benediction. Intimacy, indeed. 

_Fucking awesome. What are you up to?_ Dean types out, glancing up to see Jenna-the-Barista heading in his direction with a purposeful glint in her eye. He probably _shouldn’t’ve_ have shot her his best smile to speed up the production of his coffee… but the place is ramned and he really needed some goddamn caffeine. 

_Waiting for Meg to meet me for coffee to discuss the ongoing argument regarding her recreational drug usage. She appears to not be turning up._

Fuck it. He wants to talk to Cas, especially if he’s got some bullcrap going on with Meg that the guy definitely hasn’t mentioned before right now. 

“Morning sunshine,” Dean says when Cas picks up, sending his best attempt at an apologetic smile at the barista. Her expression falters for a second before she turns away, which means the _not available_ message definitely got delivered. 

“The barista is coming over to flirt with you some more, isn't she?” Cas asks, his voice all rich and fucking gorgeous as per. Of course Cas knows exactly what’s going on, too. Can read him like a book. 

“Miss you too, darling,” Dean says, “And yep.” 

“You should just tell her you're in an undefined long distance not-relationship.” 

“Pretty sure that's what the ‘it's complicated’ status was invented for,” Dean says, running a thumb over the outline of one of Cas’ Christmas presents feeling all grossly affectionate and gooey. He’s a goddamn sap, but things have been _good_ recently. All-day-flirting-texts, long drawn out phone calls, phone sex; I love yous. It feels like it’s on the cusp of being freaking _functional_ and it’s hard not to let himself get carried away with it. “You didn't say you were arguing with Meg.” 

“I'm bored of arguing with her,” Cas says, “And even more bored of discussing it.” 

“So you're _not_ in a good mood, huh.” 

“Dean. I'm tired,” Cas returns, in that way which means _I’m pissy_ a lot more than it means anything about lack of sleep which… he hadn’t seemed like he was in a particularly crappy mood before Dean called him, so maybe… Maybe _Dean_ is the one that’s got his voice sounding like that. 

Dean’s so damn out of practice with this relationship thing it hadn’t even occurred to him that the half-flirting with the Barista for coffee might piss Cas off. 

“Look, if you want me to go tell the barista woman that - ” 

“ - I had already relayed the story to Hannah and Kelly and was weary of discussing it. We've had this argument every six month since sophomore year, when Meg will accuse me of judging her actions and emotionally guilt tripping her into getting clean, while I stoically maintain that I _do_ want her to get clean, but am not intending to manipulate her into doing so--- it doesn't matter.” 

“Kinda sounds like it does,” Dean says, “You know that it's… It's not your job to fix everything.” 

“The situation I would like to _fix_ , I get shot down every time I try to discuss.” 

“Damn,” Dean says, “You really are in a shitty mood. You could've just said rather than let me text you crap about Christmas like it matters.” 

“I preferred that conversation over than this one.” 

“You mean you're pissed as hell at me, but you don't think it's worth talking about,” Dean says, gaze fixed on the notebook he just exchanged way too much money for in the name of Christmas and a bad in-joke. It's the kind of elegant stationary crap that Cas likes: deep brown leather, crisp gold detail, ‘On The Road’ in that ornate bookish font. It's thick cream lined paper, with goddamn quotes from Jack Kerouac. Cas is gonna hate it and love it and get that expression of affectionate disbelief, and he'll use the damn thing till it's full. Dean bought a fountain pen that almost-matches too (without the Kerouac quotes, but still that rich brown), all exquisite detail and smooth enough to write with that even Dean's scrawling handwriting looked neat. Cas has the most elegant handwriting Dean's ever freaking seen, and he insists on writing his notes and his essay drafts in notebooks that he keeps on a bookshelf in his room way, way longer than could possibly be fucking necessary. It's probably the best present he's bought anyone, and now Cas is back to sounding unhappy and tense over a thousand miles away and Dean can't even give him a goddamn hug. 

“No,” Cas says shortly, “I mean exactly what I said.” 

“Okay, let's go back to that then. When are you coming to pick up your Christmas present?” 

“It's not that simple.” 

“For you to visit in January?” 

“To change the conversation back to _light_.” 

“That's how I live my whole damn life. Talk to me about January.” 

“Dean,” 

“You are,” Dean swallows, gritting his teeth as he looks at his coffee. “You are coming?” 

“Yes.” 

“That doesn't sound all that convincing, Cas.” 

“I am intending to visit, I just don't know what to tell Hester and Gabriel.” 

“Cas. Just tell them the goddamn truth, okay?” 

“I don't understand what the _truth is_ , Dean. They're going to have questions.” 

“Then answer the freaking question. Tell them we're talking. Tell them we're working out.” 

“We're not working it out, Dean, we're working out if we _can_ work it out,” Cas says, voice picking up heat and marinating in frustration, which is… not new, but certainly not exactly what he was expecting. Cas hasn’t pushed him on this for a while. Not _really_. 

Working out if they can work it out is actually a pretty good description of what they’re doing, though. That aligns pretty neatly in his head. They’re _working out if they can work it out_ and these past couple of weeks it has felt like they’re on the cusp of some kind of shift. 

“Okay, tell them that.” 

“They will worry.” 

“Cas, family _worry_ ,” Dean almost-snaps, rubbing his forehead. 

“Hester is already convinced I'm headed for a breakdown following my father getting in contact. She will wrap me up in cotton wool and force me back to therapy.” 

“What is the point in my role in this conversation, Cas? To give you a springboard to snap my goddamn head off, whatever I say. Are you looking for a fight? Because I ain't the one who stood you up for coffee right now, I'm the one who called you to ask if you were okay about being stood up for coffee.” 

“You called because a woman was attempting to flirt with you and you wanted her to stop.” 

“Yeah, because of _you_.” 

“Oh, thank you Dean, for your commitment to our relationship which goes as far as turning down waitresses after you've gotten a free cinnamon stick in your coffee.” 

“Okay, first off, I got two little gingerbread men _and_ a cinnamon stick, and second off, you're officially being more of a bitch than Sam, so tell me what the fuck is wrong and how I can help, or call me back when you're being less of a raging douchebag.” 

“Meg is here.” 

“- Cas.” 

“I'll call you later.” 

“Damnit, Castiel, come _on_ ,” Dean says, but he's already talking to the goddamn dial tone. Dean glares at his dumbass, cinnamony, gingerbready coffee and scowls at his phone. 

“Dean?” Sam asks, suddenly right there and frowning at him, bags in hand. “You done?” 

“Fuck yes,” Dean mutters, grabbing his coffee and pocketing his phone. “We are never going shopping this close to Christmas again. You got something for Sarah?” 

“Yeah,” Sam says, “Books.” 

“You dog, Sam.” 

“Shut up,” Sam mutters, rearranging his bags in his hands and beginning to speed walk in the direction of the parking lot. At least Sam seems about as done with this whole thing as Dean feels right now, which guarantees a speedy exit. “What was that with Cas?” 

“What was what?” Dean says. The feigning innocence thing with Sam never usually works against Sam's tenacious pain-in-the-assery, but it's worth a shot.

“Are you fighting? I thought you were doing well.” 

“We're fine,” Dean says as the spill out into the parking lot. 

“Dean,” Sam says, “When I left you were being all sappy over that notebook and now you're acting like someone trash-talked baby.” 

“You're driving. I'm beat,” Dean says, chucking Sam the keys to the car and heading towards the backseat to dump the rest of their crap, “Damn, this coffee is good.” 

“It smells like unrefined sugar and diabetes.” 

“With caffeine,” Dean says, “ And cream.” 

“You had a fight with Cas,” Sam says, sliding into the front seat and sending him a hard look. 

“If you know what happened, why ask?” 

“You can talk to me about Cas.” 

“Nope,” Dean says, draining the dregs of his coffee, which is extra sugar-sweet and syrupy in a way that’s borderline-disgusting. Sam pulls out of the parking lot and sends him a look in the rearview mirror that clearly says Sam thinks he’s a complete dumbass. 

“Dean,” 

“You get judgemental and way too freaking involved, Sam, and remember every damn thing wrong he's ever done.” 

“You think I'm too involved in _your life._ Seriously?” 

“Sam. You chewed my damn ear off for weeks about what a shitty idea driving out to Cas was.” 

“Dean, I applied to Yale.” 

“If you did that so I'd talk to you about my freaking love life -” 

“ - No, Dean, you were at this weird rut with Cas and I wanted you to… I don't know. Think about what you wanted, but you won't tell me anything that's going on.” 

“We talk, Sam. We're not seeing other people, he's visiting in January and I bought him a Christmas present -- that's the whole thing.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“Dude, I have just been freaking Christmas shopping. I don't wanna get into this with you, right after getting into it with Cas.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean, the guy has some weird hyper intense relationship with his best friend and her drug habit, and now he's projecting that onto _me_ like I have a freaking clue what he should tell Hester for her not to freak out.” 

“Tell Hester?” Sam asks, brow furrowed. 

“About us.” 

“Hester doesn't know you're back in contact?” 

“No,” Dean says, “Or Gabriel. _I_ told Charlie.” 

“That's kind of…. Weird.” 

“Think he wants to put a label on it first.” 

“Like boyfriend?” Sam asks, like any of it is that freaking _simple_. Maybe that is what’s crawled up Cas’ ass this morning, but it’s not like he’s actually said that he wants them to put a bow on it and call it a freaking relationship again. He’s suggested stuff, sure, but he’s never outright said that he _wanted_ them to commit to a boyfriend-boyfriend long distance thing. Charlie said that he probably wanted Dean to take a lead on it, but he’s not…. Not there yet. 

“Like anything he can point at, I don't know. But. I don't wanna rush this, till we've worked it out.” 

“It's been like four months, Dean,” Sam says, “And I've heard you on the phone.” 

“Well, Sammy, four months might be a lifetime when you’re seventeen…” 

“Don’t be an asshole,” Sam cuts in, “Your _original_ relationship wasn’t exactly decades long, Dean. Four months is a long time to skate around something.” 

“I’m not skating around anything,” Dean counters, “We’re _processing_.” 

“That doesn’t mean anything.” 

“Your face doesn’t mean anything.” 

“Dean,” 

“We’re making progress, Sam. We are. He never used to tell me what was going on in his head. He’d just retreat and swallow down all the crap that was bothering him and…. I never _wanted_ us to break up.” 

“I know that.” 

“But there wasn’t other options. I -- I was so freaking broke, Sam. If anything happened, I’d have have been fucked. If I got _sick_ , if the car broke, if my freaking phone broke -- there was _no goddamn flexibility_ \- and…there weren’t options.” 

“And now there are.” 

“Maybe,” Dean says. 

“Did you flirt with the coffee shop woman to get that sugary crap?” 

“Maybe.” 

“You’re such an idiot, Dean.” 

“Maybe,” Dean says, leaning forward to flick the radio on and settling back into his seat. “I like how things are right now. With Cas.” 

“And how does Cas feels about it?” 

The honest answer to that is that Dean has absolutely no fucking idea how Cas feels about anything right now, which doesn’t exactly make his ‘Cas tells me what’s going on in his spiel’ all that convincing. 

Dean turns the radio up and sings along, loudly, until they get home. 

Later, Dean agnosises over a long message to Cas for near to an hour before he can’t face rereading it one more goddamn time. He’s no good at this talking about feelings crap, but he _knows_ he needs to do better for Cas’ sake. That much has been made pretty freaking clear from the I-love-you debacle. Sam keeps sending him knowing looks over his homework until Dean gives up and retreats to his damn bedroom. _Sorry you’re having a shitty day and you’re worried about Meg. Not gonna pretend I understand your whole thing with her, but I’ve been on the receiving end of your dogged care before and it’s goddamn privilege. She’s lucky._ Dean sends first, clenching his jaw as he carries on. _You gotta tell me when stuff is bothering you Cas, whether it’s freaking baristas or not having a name for this or telling Hester, but you gotta TELL me cause I’m dumb as hell about this stuff_. Dean swallows and rolls onto his back. _Freaking crazy about you, Cas, and I really like how things are now. If you don’t, you gotta tell me._. 

Cas doesn’t call until late. 

Dean picks up on the second ring like the teenage girl he definitely is. 

“Hello Dean,” 

“Cas,” Dean exhales, “Hey.” 

“I’m completely indifferent to a barista flirting with you. 

“So,” Dean says, mouth dry. “I'm right. You're pissed about _something_.”

“I am not ‘pissed’ Dean, but I thought… I thought we were moving forwards.”

“Forwards how?”

“That is the question,” Cas says, almost-sarcasm packed into his voice, and Dean has no idea exactly what that is supposed to mean.

“What?”

“Dean. What _is_ this?”

Dean’s stomach drops.

“You're hitting me with that on a freaking Saturday?”

“Would you prefer a Sunday? I can wait a few hours.” 

“We've always pretty much defied definition.”

“Dean,” Cas says, “I've been speaking to Hannah -”

“ - So, your friends got in your head and they hate me because we broke up that one time a million goddamn years ago.” Dean fills in, standing up and pacing for something to do with his frustration. Of _course_ Cas’ friends have gotten in his head. He more or less said that they used to hate him. He definitely said that Meg told him that getting away from Kansas was a good idea that summer. If Cas’ friends said they thought Dean was bad enough that Cas should leave the continent, then obviously they’d have opinions about _this_. Dean’s got no idea why that didn’t occur to him previously. 

“No,” Cas says, an edge to his voice. “Dean, I thought -”

“ - You thought after you'd cornered me into dropping an L bomb I'd drop my pants and let you have everything?” 

“I did not corner you, Dean, and I refuse to let you rob my joy from that memory.” 

“Sounds like you've already let Hannah do that.”

“ _Dean,_ I am in love with you. I just want to know what you view _this as_.”

“The fact that I love you doesn't make a damn fucking difference to our situation.”

“Yes, it does.”

“This isn't hallmark, Castiel. _Love_ doesn't erase our shitty history and this shitty distance.”

“And that's all you have to say on the matter?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say what you _want_ , Dean. I want you to tell what the fuck we're doing.”

“See, this is why I didn't want to have this goddamn conversation. This is why I didn't want us to talk about this when we haven't dealt with any of our shit, because now you want stuff for me.”

“You cannot be naive to the fact that I have always wanted stuff from you, Dean.” Cas throws back, and that’s _more_ than fair. Obviously he’s fucking known that Cas wanted something, because Cas is _Castiel_. He’s the same too-honest homeschooled kid who looked at Dean like he hung the moon as he smuggled Dean fries into the library because he forgot to eat. 

“Okay, fine. Now you feel entitled to crap from me.”

“I am _not entitled._ ”

“Yeah, Cas. You are. You know what… sometimes you talk like this is something that just _happened_ to you and it's - you're not a passive participant in this Cas. You act like you're just - like being in love with me just happened to you, like us breaking up just _happened_ , like us drifting back together just happened, but that's not how it works. You've been making decisions about this this whole time. I _told_ you that I was hot mess and I didn't have a lot to give you when I was seventeen, and you said you were in. You - I called you from two hundred miles away, and you drove after me. You _chose_ to do that. You chose to kiss me in my apartment after we broke up and you chose to walk out, twice, and leave the continent without telling me. You chose to text me a goddamn apology and you chose to _call me_ three years after the fact to ask for my help. Those actions are on you, Cas, none of that crap just _happened_ as a direct result of you feeling your damn feelings. You made a decision, so don't act like you're just… Just a victim of being in love, because it's annoying and it's bullcrap. I _told_ you I didn't know if this could work - that I'm making this shit up as I go along - and I told you that if you couldn't handle that you should tell me and bow out.”

“Dean, that was months ago,” Cas says, his voice deep, frustrated. “It was _months_ ago. You said you needed to figure things out.”

“But this isn't a one man show,” Dean says, “This isn't _my call_. If you're pissed off then you have to tell me what the hell you want. I'm not a mind reader, Cas. You just - you didn't even say you wanted me to call you when I was leaving New Haven, you just asked if I would. Make a decision, Cas. A real life goddamn choice that you’re going to own, rather than just --- reacting as stuff comes at you. I _like how things are_. If you don’t, then fucking say something rather than… just _hinting at it_ then changing your mind about having the conversation.”

“You like how things are?”

“Yes,” Dean snaps, “We’re talking, Cas, we’re having fun -- I am _happy_ with how things are, right now.” 

“I’m not,” Cas says, heavily. “I am not content with us having _fun_.”

“Didn’t goddamn mean it like that,” Dean says, “But, fine. Tell me what you fucking _want_.”

“I want a commitment from you. I want to commit _to_ you.”

“Cas.”

“You have asked me to trust you. How am I supposed to that when you have offered me _nothing_ , except phone calls and texts-?”

“ - those phone calls and texts are _everything_ I have -”

“What efforts have you made for this relationship? What have you changed?”

“Cas -” Dean begins, but now he’s _started_ and he’s not freaking stopping. Pandora's freaking box and Cas’ feelings are pouring out in waves of frustration and age old hurts that Dean only half knew existed.

“ - I'm not doing this with you with one foot out of the door, again, because you've decided it won't work.”

“I told you -”

“ - Prefacing this with I don't know if it will work isn't a free pass to never come to a decision, Dean,” Cas says, “If you want something enough, people find a way to make it work.”

Dean’s lungs turn to lead. 

“You don't think I want you enough?”

“No,” Cas says “I don't. If you wanted _this_ you would - you would go and see someone about your phobia of planes -”

“ - I still wouldn't be able to afford it.”

“ - and you would ask me to pay for it, Dean, because I have money, and your pride shouldn't be worth more than this.”

“This world isn't some shiny, happy place where people get what they want, Cas. Some things are out of my control.”

“And some things are not. You're being _passive_ in this too. You make a decision, Dean, mine is already made.”

“And what's that?”

“I want to be in a relationship with you,” Cas says, “I’ve always been committed to that. Nothing has changed. My feelings and position are all as they were. I am in love with you. I understand your concerns and I don't know if we can make this work, but I'm unprepared to give up without you making it explicitly clear that you want me to.”

“I,” Dean begins, then his voice dies in his throat. This is…hard. This is fucking torturous, because… because he can’t _do that_. Not yet. He doesn’t have the capacity right now and even the hint of the words _I can’t do that_ taste bitter and ashy. “I’m… I’m not there yet.”

“Oh,”

That sound is the equivalent of a fucking elephant sitting on his chest, but it’s the truth. He’s… he’s not at a commitment place right now. There’s too much baggage. There’s too much history they haven’t hashed out. There’s this wide open gaping expanse of the future that they haven’t even considered, either, and he… he just doesn’t fucking know. He wish he _did_ but there’s still so much of this that they goddamn terrible at. 

“I just… Cas,” Dean says, phone pressed closed so damn close to his ear it’s almost painful. “We’re really good at breaking each other. I don’t want that to happen again. I just don’t know if... If relationships are supposed to be this _hard_. If,” Dean stalls, slams his eyes shut. “If something was supposed to work out, you'd have thought we'd have actually make it work out.”

“So you’re unwilling to try.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Dean says, “Cas. I _want_ this to work. I really fucking want this work, but… but what if we’ve been playing pretend for four months because it’s a helluva lot easier to ignore our shit when you’re over a thousand miles away and I don’t have to look you in the eye? I -- either we’re all in or we’ve gotta call time, really call time, and I can’t - I can’t lose you again. If we go for it and it tanks then… then we can’t go _back_ , Cas. We don’t get a third shot at the goal. Then that’s _it_.” 

“Dean,” Cas says, imploring and full of something that makes his bones ache, “You can’t lose something you don’t _have_.”

“All I ever fucking do is lose things I don’t have,” Dean mutters, “Cas. I - I haven’t worked it out yet. I’m really fucking sorry, but that’s the truth. I don’t _know_. I don’t know how any of this fits together. I don’t _know_ yet. I need more time.”

“Okay,”

“It’s _not_ ,” Dean says, “Damnit, Cas, I thought we were on the same page, but you’re -”

“ - a chapter ahead,” Cas supplies, “Your previous stance has always been you can't do this long distance, at all. Is that -?”

“ - no,” Dean says, pulse picking up, “No. It’s… it’s different now.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Dean says, “We’re not kids anymore, Cas, and I… we’re _better_ at this. I have some flexibility. This -- being so far away sucks, but it hasn’t _all_ sucked. We’ve talked. We’ve… you don’t feel far away a lot of the time anymore. It’s just when I want to kiss you, but -”

“Dean,” Cas interrupts, his voice determined and solid, “I don’t want you to interpret as me trying to pressurise you or punish you for voicing how you feel. I don't like it, but I don't blame you for it, but.. I don’t think me coming to Kansas in January is a good idea if you haven’t made a decision about what you want yet.”

“This is an ultimatum?” Dean asks, heart in his throat, mouth dry. 

“No,” Cas says, “No, Dean, it’s not. This is about _me_. I… can’t come and see you again if you haven’t decided. It's not January or nothing but…. I don’t know what you’re willing to _give me_ , Dean, and if you pick me up from the airport and you kiss me, all my resolve that this needs to be resolved will be shot to hell. This is not a sustainable solution -”

Dean swallows back that desire to throw something or scream or put his fucking fist through a wall, because _all_ he has wanted for weeks and weeks was to see Cas. January has been the thing getting him through for ages, and… and _now_. Now, he doesn’t get it. 

And he can’t even _blame_ Cas for making that decision. 

“I didn’t say this was any kind of solution.” 

“Then what is your solution?” 

“I - I don’t know, damnit, I don’t.”

“You need to think and you need to decide whether you can give me what I need, because - this doesn’t work for me, Dean. I _love you_ , but I cannot let this run me to the ground while you decide if you can forgive me or not. It feels like you are holding yourself ransom because of a mistake I made years ago and I -- I can’t do it.”

“That’s _not_ what I’m trying to do, Cas.”

“Dean, don’t you understand that every time you text me it will be _worse_ if you ultimately decide it won’t work? This is _self preservation_ ”

“But,” Dean begins, “Cas. It’s not like this not working wouldn’t break me too.”

“I am not opposed to preserving _your_ heart either, after historic transgressions on my behalf,” Cas says, “Dean. I _like_ this too. I like our conversations. I like having January to look forward to, but I _can’t do it to myself_ unless you know what you want. It will hurt me too much.”

“Okay,” Dean says, swallowing down the word, because he gets it. He wishes he fucking didn’t, but he _gets it_. If his version of self-preservation is not making a commitment, then Cas can have his backing off. It just… it just _sucks_ and it hurts and it makes his whole fucking gut ache. “I get that, but if you don’t come in January, when’s the next time you can fly out here? Because - I don’t, it’s December. I need time.”

“How much time?”

“Cas, if I _knew_ that -”

“ - spring break,” Cas says, voice pointed, “I have a two weeks off in March.”

“That’s… that’s forever away.” 

“Then do something _intentional_ to change that, Dean. Tell me you want me to look at the same colleges as Sam for my postgraduate. Give me some name to this that I can tell Hester, so that I can try visit more often. Book some time off to see me. Do _something_. I want to see you, Dean, I _want_ this to be a real relationship again, where you don’t hold my mistakes over me -”

“ -I’m not trying to punish you for that crap, Cas, but it happened. It _happened._.”

“And you can forgive me, or you can’t. This middle ground helps no one.”

“And that’s that?”

“You wanted me to tell you what I think and to stop being passive. You can't have it both ways.”

“No, I know, this is good. You're right, okay? You're right, but I just don't know how any of this is supposed to work anymore, I don't _know_.”

“I know,” Cas says, “I should go, but I love you,”

“Yeah,” Dean says, voice clogged up in this throat.

“Dean.”

“I love you too, okay? You know that. And I'm not… I'm not pissed at you. Just at my whole life. I'll call you tomorrow.”

“Dean, I have no issue with buying plane tickets last minute. I’m not going to chase up your answer, so if you change your mind...”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, “Okay.”

“And Dean,” Cas says, the distance suddenly achingly evident in the empty expanse of his room, “Don’t let this become another prom.”

Dean doesn’t sleep for shit that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't give you too long a break from the angst, right? ;)


	15. Chapter 15

Sam is _finally_ off for school for Christmas and the garage shuts down until the new year tomorrow, which means that, although Dean’s life sucks in a lot of respects, he does get to spend a whole lot of time hanging out with his little brother, in their own place. A lot of the actual Christmas stuff will probably happen at Bobby’s, but Die Hard marathons and god freaking awful candy cane flavoured popcorn will happen in their _home_ and it’s still a freaking privilege after a few years of enforced separation and a couple of years before that of cold motel rooms, absence and no money for Christmas presents. These days, they can celebrate properly, and that alone is equal parts warming and pressure-filled expectation.

Cas has been good to his word, too. It _wasn’t_ an ultimatum. They’ve stopped talking about him visiting in January, but they haven’t stopped talking all together, so everything could be a helluva lot worse.

“Hey, can Sarah come over?” Sam asks, glancing up from his phone just as John McClane shoots someone else in the face. He’s comically folded up on the other side of the couch with his phone in his lap and _still_ eating that crappy popcorn on automatic.

“Didn’t know you _asked_ about that kind of crap.”

“Dean, I promised you Die Hard.” Sam says, which makes more sense. He’s asking if it’s okay to dilute their bonding time with another person, even though they’ve barely seen each other all freaking December between overtime at the garage as a result of mass weather related car-breakdowns, Sam’s school schedule and the space they’ve both carved out in their lives for _other_ people, like Sarah and Cas. Sam probably hasn’t seen all that much of Sarah lately, either, and at least a third of Dean’s head has been in New Haven for months.

At least _one_ of them should get a chance to _actually see_ the person they’re kind of seeing.

“Okay, that depends, does Sarah _like_ Die Hard?” Dean asks, through another handful of popcorn that he cannot seem to stop eating, even though it’s fucking terrible and not in a bad-it’s-good way. 

“She’ll _watch_ Die Hard.”

“Then whatever,” Dean shrugs, “We’ve got more than week to hang out, Sam, invite your damn girlfriend over if you wanna. Oh -- tell her to get some better popcorn. And beer.”

“She’s eighteen, Dean.”

“Didn’t know you were her toy boy, Sammy.”

“You’re an ass,” Sam says, before dropping into quoting, “No fucking shit lady, does it sound like I'm ordering a pizza?.”

Dean’s phone pings with a _what clothes are you wearing?_ three quarters of the way through the film from Cas, which is just the kind dorky off piste crap that makes Dean roll his eyes and smile at the same damn time. 

“Oh look, _your_ toy boy.”

“Screw you,” Dean throws back lightly, as Dean types out _Now I have a machine gun. Ho ho ho_ even though it feels like the chances of Cas being able to quote Die Hard back at him is pretty damn slim, unless Meg got him to watch it. He follows it up with _that Metallica shirt you used to sleep in when you stayed at mine. Jeans. Basically, exactly what I always freaking wear_ because Cas has a tendency to be achingly literal whenever Dean starts their conversations like that, and he might as well follow suit.

_I assume that’s a film quote. You still own that shirt?_

_Metallica shirts are for life, not just for Christmas. What are YOU wearing, you freaking adorable nerd?_

Dean receives _three words, Dean: Christmas sweater party_ just as Sarah rings to be buzzed up. Dean makes a point of stretching out to take up the whole sofa to be purposefully annoying and rearranges the popcorn bowl on his lap, phone in hand. Things could definitely , definitely be worse.

_Hope you’re drunk out of your mind for that._

_Designated driver._

_That’s actually so fucking sad I don’t know what to say. Actually, yeah I freaking do. Picture._

_I’m concerned you’ll never be attracted to me again._

_Impossible._

He looks freaking ridiculous in the picture that Dean receives a couple of seconds later, in his bright red and green _glittered_ Christmas freaking sweater. He also hasn’t shaved for a touch longer than normal which Dean’s discovered he’s pretty much _always_ into and his eyes are crinkled with end of semester-exhaustion that Dean kind of wants to ease away with a hand on the shoulder, dropping a kiss under his earlobe, pulling him into a hug and holding him hostage there.

“Uh, Dean,” Sam says, suddenly behind him with his eyebrows raised. He flushes and tries to look like he’s _not_ making gooey eyes at a fucking photo of his long-distant-something with minimal success. 

“He’s -- there’s a Christmas sweater party. Shut up.”

“That’s Dean’s ex-boyfriend, current _something_ ,” Sam fills in for Sarah, still smirking as he swipes the bowl of popcorn from his lap and nudges him to move his legs.

“Hey Sarah, how about we kick this clown out and watch Die Hard without him?”

“But then who’ll microwave the popcorn?”

“Good point,” Dean says, “Popcorn, Sammy.”

“ _Sam_.”

“Whatever,” Dean says, “How's freedom from academia treating you, Sarah?”

“Oh, you know. I'm enjoying it, between all the homework and college applications.”

“Man, sometimes I'm glad I nearly failed high school. Way less pressure.”

“Right, like your senior year of high school was stress free,” Sam rolls his eyes.

“You want a soda, Sarah, as Sam's too damn rude to offer you one himself. Who raised you, anyway?”

“Go back to making heart eyes at dorky pictures of your boyfriend, jerk.”

“You-- your hair is stupid,” Dean throws back, “Bitch.”

“I'll take a soda,” Sarah grins, sitting down on the arm of the sofa and raising her eyebrows in Sam’s direction. Sarah's good. Good for Sam. She fits into their back and forth well and she seems to make Sam happy, so that's good enough for Dean.

“I'll put some more in the fridge.”

“Just don't go evicting my beer, Samuel,” Dean calls after him before he glances back down at his phone again. _I assume this gaping silence means you’re overcome by attraction. Also, can I call you?_.

_Die Hard marathon, buddy._

_When would be convenient? I need to talk to you about something before I fly out to California tomorrow._

“Popcorns on,” Sam says, taking his seat at the foot of the sofa with all his gangly limbs.

_Like, we need to talk need to talk?_ Dean thumbs out, throat tightening a little.

_Of sorts_

“Uh,” Dean says, dislodging himself from the sofa just as Sam hits play again. “Just need to call Cas.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, even though he has no fucking idea, because that definitely doesn't sound good. “Shouldn’t be long. Carry on watching.” 

“You know I'm gonna steal your seat right?”

“Remember who pays the rent around here, Sam,” Dean says as he heads for his bedroom, shutting his bedroom door behind him.

Of sorts. Goddamnit, Cas’ cryptic crap is a pain in the ass. 

He answers on the first ring.

“Hello Dean,” 

“Hey,” Dean says, “Is -- is everything okay?” 

“Yes,” Cas says, and the tension in Dean's shoulders bleeds into the room. It has all been okay, but everything feels less stable on the other side of that conversation with Cas, like he's working against the clock to get to some kind of decision. He feels the pressure of it at the back of every conversation and he almost misses the ease the whole topic of remaining unmentioned. Not really, though. He's been trying to get Cas to talk about what's going on in his head for years, it's just…It's just now the concept that Cas might run out of patience feels very real and it's fucking terrifying. The concept of _not_ having Cas is… it doesn’t sit well with him, that’s for sure. How _much_ it doesn’t sit well with him is a goddamn problem, too, but there’s not a whole lot he can _do_ about that. “It’s fine, Dean, I just wanted to speak to you about California.”

“Sunny climate, legal marijuana, good times.” Dean says, sitting on the edge of his bed and toeing off his socks, rearranging his pillows and sprawling across his bed. 

“Anna’s boyfriend is joining us for Christmas.”

“Huh. Serious boyfriend, then.”

“Yes,” Cas says, “And this is very good for Anna. She is doing very _well_ , Dean, and this hosting Christmas is good for her.”

“Cas, where are you going with this?”

“I have been thinking and its… it’s not a good time to tell them about us,”

“Thought you’d already pretty much decided that,” Dean says, more bitterness creeping into his voice that he thought he actually felt about Cas keeping their whole damn contact a secret. 

“Yes, but I’ve been thinking about the _practicalies_ of not telling them while cohabitating for ten days in my sister’s relatively small apartment,” Cas says, “Dean, I’m sharing a bedroom with Gabriel.”

“Good luck with that,” Dean mutters, “Quit beating around the bush, Cas, you're making me nervous. You mean we can’t call as much. Just say it.”

“I’m unsure about the practicality of us calling at all,” Cas says, and… And that is an uncomfortably squeeze on his ability to breathe that he would not have expected. Not speak, _at all._ Merry fucking Christmas, indeed.

“Okay,” Dean says, because that's okay. He can deal with that. “So we just text.”

“Gabriel is not above stealing my phone and reading my personal messages, Dean.”

“Okay, so _lock your phone_.”

“I can tell it’s been some time since you’ve hung out with Gabriel.” Dean resists the urge to say _and whose fault is that?_ because the only reason he’s thinking it is that he’s stung from this whole conversation that feels like it's come out of fucking nowhere, and he does not _love_ how uneasy this conversation is making him already. “I will text you when it’s safe to do so, but they are remarkably invested in my life. They will ask who I’m so dedicated to messaging.”

“And this just occurred to you now?” Dean says, “You realised this today, that you're gonna pretend I don't freaking exist for the whole of Christmas -”

“I don’t _want_ not to speak to you, Dean, but if I’m on my phone all the time they will have questions and I don’t have the answer to those questions, which will upset Hester and upstage Anna and -- I don’t want to deal with them incessantly asking how I feel, Dean. I just want us to enjoy Christmas.” 

“Bullshit is this about Anna,” Dean says, “That's a load of crap, Cas.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Tell Hester you goddamn drunk dialled me four months ago when I was in your apartment instead of censoring me out of your life,” Dean snaps, “Instead of lying about my freaking existence.”

“My aunt does not need to know about my sex life, Dean.”

“Fucking A grade demotion right there.”

“At that point, that's all that was to tell.”

“No it goddamn wasn't. I didn't drive eight hundred miles out my way to get a leg over.”

“Dean, please, I don't want to fight with you. You know that's not what I meant.”

“If you wanted some kind of cooling off period -”

“That is not what I'm suggesting,”

“- Because from where I'm standing, it feels a hell of a lot like you're back stepping out of this relationship. First January and now you’re just -”

“It _isn’t_ a relationship, Dean.”

“And that the fucking crux of it,” Dean says, indignance churning up in his stomach that he's not sure he's entitled to feel. He thought he would have worked out what _this_ meant by the time he got back to Lawrence, not that he'd still be trying to figure this out so far down the line. It isn't exactly a surprise that Cas won't be strung along forever. It's good that Cas has drawn a line in the sand, it just doesn't feel good. _It doesn’t feel good_ when it’s freaking Christmas and he was so looking forward to time off work and… and talking to Cas, and dumb crap like being able to call him on New Years’ Eve, and it doesn’t feel good when he might not see Cas until his freaking spring break and the idea of _not_ talking to him whenever the hell he wants makes him want to break something. 

“I am not using underhand tactics to railroad you into a relationship you don't want, Dean. I don't understand why labelling something is such a problem from you in the first place, but I _told you_ that I will wait until you know what you want, but I'm not going to pretend that there aren't consequences to that.”

“It's not the damn label I have a problem with, its commitment.”

“I'm relatively sure that's worse,” Cas says down the other end of the phone, all clinical and calm, “Dean, please hear me when I say that I am not doing this because I am punishing you or in any way mad at you. You _feel how you feel_. I… I just want to be able to enjoy Christmas dinner without Gabriel making his opinion about this decision very graphically clear. He --- you are a sore topic, anyway, because my choices cost him his best friend, and Hester will be very upset that I have hidden things from her and she will want to talk and then Anna will feel her moment has been taken from her and - I know this will frustrate you - but I don't like Christmas, Dean, because it is complicated and upsetting and I don't want to be the reason everyone argues. I would very much like to be able to call you when it feels like the whole thing is going to drive me insane, but I am not ready to deal with the consequences, and this is the only solution I've gotten to.”

And… He can't even argue with that. 

“Cas,” Dean exhales, because, fuck, he knows Cas finds Christmas difficult, which isn't a goddamn surprise given the years of shitty Christmases with his father. He knows that. They’ve talked about it. “The thought of not being able to talk to you all fucking Christmas makes me want to punch a hole through a wall. I… I get it, okay, fine. I get it. But I…. I hate it.”

“Dean,” Cas says, “You know that is a very strong indicator that you're already committed.”

And _that_ is not something he's going to get into right now.

“Cancel your damn Christmas party and talk to me. Gotta get my fill,” Dean says, tracing circles on his covers with his free hand.

“Dean,” Cas says, this time apologetic and oceans deep. The kind of tone of voice that's way too intimate for anyone else to hear. “I have to leave in ten minutes.”

A bubble of disappointment flares up and sits on his lungs, stubborn and painful.

“Ten freaking minutes? That's it?”

“I'll call you in the morning,” 

“When are flying back to New Haven?”

“The third,” Cas says, all soft and freaking understanding, like he gets why Dean's losing his shit over less than two goddamn weeks of no contact. Fuck, Dean is pathetic, and hopelessly into Cas, and needy and all the rest. 

“And you want me to just,” Dean takes a breath, chews the concept over in his head, “Not contact you until then.”

“Yes,”

“Okay,” Dean agrees, even though the whole thing seems like a violation of everything they've been building. It feels wrong. It feels like the worst fucking idea he's ever heard, but it's not his call, and it's less than two weeks.

He's been handling his crap without Cas for a long time before they started this up. Getting upset about it is over dramatic and dumb and he just needs to shove this feeling of dread down and squash it under Christmas popcorn and the rest of the festive feelings. That's it. Just deal with it.

“You want me to ship out your Christmas present to Yale?”

“No,” Cas says, “I'll collect it when I see you.”

“That could be a while,” Dean says, chest tight, “Merry freaking Christmas I guess, Cas, and happy New Year-”

“- Dean,”

“Really wish you could've given me some goddamn warning,” Dean says, “Enjoy your damn party.”

“I will call you tonight if you're awake,” Cas says, voice smooth and fucking lovely and, goddamnit, why does Yale have to be so far away? Why does Anna have to be hosting fucking Christmas in California? Why can't all of this just be easy?

“Awesome,” Dean says, taking thirty seconds just to breathe after they've said their goodbyes and hung up.

Delivering a running commentary to Cas is more or less habitual now. It's a fucking habit. Multiple calls a day, dozens of text messages, pictures. It so much a part of his daily routine, now, that he’s not sure what he’s going to freaking do with himself, but… he's kicked habits before, and this has a time limit. It'll be fine. 

And maybe it'll clear some of the bullshit noise in his head. 

Dean steps back out into the living room to find Die Hard frozen at the credits and Sam’s bedroom door shut. He can't exactly blame them for ditching the marathon given Dean was definitely longer than a couple of minutes on the phone, but it still makes his chest pang with something like loneliness, but with a more bitter aftertaste.

He puts on the second movie and hits play on his own anyway, because it's Christmas, nearly, and there's not a damn thing else he has to do in the world.

When Cas calls half way through the fourth movie, Dean ignores it even though he'll probably regret it in three days time when all he wants to fucking do is text Cas about his breakfast like a total asshole, and calls it _practice._

The candy cane popcorn is worse when eaten alone at 2AM. Dean restarts the Die Hard marathon again because he can't face the totally fucking empty expanse of his bedroom or any of his inconvenient, bullshit feelings.

*

The only damn reason he’s showing up to his work Christmas drinks - organised and primarily attended by Walt and Roy, and therefore guaranteed to slightly suck - is because Sam’s at Sarah’s (again) and Cas is in California, and it didn’t feel like sitting in his front room and _thinking_ about those things was gonna make him feel better about any of it. He’s driving as a guarantee to stop himself getting drunk and mopey (or having to call Sam for a ride home like last time) which means it’s going to extra-suck, but whatever. It’s not like he has a whole load of other options available to him. 

“Winchester,” Roy declares as Dean turns up, clearly on the other side of half a six pack, “Pull up a seat, kid, talk to us.”

“Ignore anything he says, Dean,” Tara adds, beer in her hand and actually _there_ , which is a rarity and probably going to be the saving grace for this whole crappy evening. “Good to see you.”

“Ignoring Roy is my usual policy,” Dean says, launching them into one of those surface level easy conversations that doesn't involve thinking too hard.

“Four o’clock, eyeing you up,” Tara says, half way through their semi-impassioned discussion about cars, nudging him with her arm. Four o’clock turns out to be a hot as hell brunette with the kind of smile that promises the good kind of aching the next day and Dean could not be less goddamn interested if he tried.

“Haven’t you heard? Our Dean’s pulling a it’s-complicated with his ex.”

“Which ex?” Tara asks, “The serious guy you went to school with.”

“Bingo,” Walt says, “That’s still your deal right, Winchester?”

“You mean you haven’t seen him hunched over his phone every break time?”

“Anything to get me away from you, Roy,” Dean subs in cheerfully, taking a pull of the single beer he’s allowed to have this evening and rolling his eyes, “But, yeah, I’m talking to Cas.”

“Aha,” Tara says, “Duck recommendation, frantic shift swapping guy.”

“Right,” Dean says and, fuck, Dean's pathetic. He's a goddamn love struck sap who had no control over any of this and never freaking did. Dean was sucked into Cas’ orbit the second Cas considered calling him, and he was doomed the second he pointed his steering wheel in this direction. There’s not a damn thing Dean can do about it. “He liked the duck.”

“You're still just _talking_?”

“Yep,” Dean returns, peeling the label of his beer and staring Roy out. Intimidation tactics usually work to shut him up, but he’s not always that _smart_ the other side of this much goddamn beer. 

“So,” Roy continues, “You’re here. He’s in… Vermont.”

“Connecticut, asshat.”

“Connecticut,” Roy corrects, “You aint in a relationship and you _wont_ give your number to four o’clock?”

“What the hell kind of relationships do _you_ have with people, Roy?” 

“And you think _he’s_ all the way out there honouring your exclusivity deal, even though there’s not a damn way you’d know either way?”

“Cas, unlike you, isn’t a total freaking douchebag, so _yeah_.” 

“You _really think_ -”

“Don’t listen to him, Winchester, it’s good that you trust him,” Tara says, and the words ring round in his head. _It’s good that you trust him_. Trust him. Tara thinks Dean _trusts him_ , which…

Dean's pretty sure that's been their major roadblock that whole time.

“You _really_ have that much faith in a guy you already dumped twice, as far as I can work out?”

“Put it this way, asshole, I’d sooner put faith in Cas than let you so much as change the oil in my car.”

“That’s rich, kid.”

“Talk to me when you move out of your Mom’s basement, Roy.”

“You fucker.”

“You owe me a drink,” Dean mutters darkly, still stuck on how, apparently, Dean trusts Cas. 

At least, about some things. He trusts in Cas’s feelings for Dean. He trusts in Cas’ commitment to those feelings. He trusts that Cas means what he says when he says it, but -

Cas leaves.

That's what he _does_ , except … He hasn't. He's taken a freaking hiatus from all the contact for a week or so, but Dean doesn't really believe for a second that Cas would pull a full on disappearing act without warning. With warning, then yeah, and that would gut him, but ...

“Long distance is hard,” Tara says, while the other’s queue up at the bar, looking at him with her kind-but-firm gaze, “Will you see him over the holidays?”

“No,” Dean says, voice hard enough that Tara gets the message not to pick at it any further.

The whole thing freaking haunts him for the rest of the damn evening as he checks his phone like a thirteen year old girl even though he goddamn knows that Cas isn't going to text him, or call, but it's so ingrained in his fucking routine that he can't help himself. It’s like an itch. Maddening and frustrating and consuming. Those dumb moments of communication - texts, brief phone calls, long, leisurely chats - have done a stellar job of taking off the edge of how overwhelming _missing Castiel_ is. He knew he missed him. He knew that, but he didn’t know he missed him _like this_ , and…. And apparently Dean freaking trusts him.

At least, partially. 

He trusts in the line of communication they've rebuilt. He basically believes that Cas is telling him all the pertinent stuff that's going on in his head, even if it can take a while. He believes that Cas is gonna keep texting him back and calling him. He believes that they understand each other a whole lot better than they ever did.

He sure as shit trusts that Cas wouldn't cheat on him and he's pretty damn sure that they could could to a wordless of definition of what that would look like without confirming, lack of relationships status be damned.

Dean's pretty fucking sure that, at least by some definitions, he trusts Cas.

He's about fifty fifty about whether Cas trusts him back, and he's got no idea what to do with that.

*

It is freaking remarkable how many more hours there are in the day without Cas, and how much those hours suck the life out of him like some goddamn dementor.

Dean puts a California clock on his lock screen because he's a total pathetic asshat, and then he works on the car at Bobby's and cleans the freaking apartment, and deals with checking the last few months bank statements, and starts researching what the reading is for the evening options at college after Christmas, and waits for Sam to be done seeing his friends, or Sarah, or with his homework. He watches two seasons of some Netflix show he's pretty sure sucks and distractedly rearranges their lack luster Christmas decorations every time he's in the front room for something to do with his hands.

He's exhausted and he's grumpy and Sam is blissfully unaware in Sam-land, while Dean concentrates on not getting in a fight to channel some of this cloying, sickly frustration somewhere.

And then, fucking finally, it's christmas.

*

“What did Cas say when you told him about me applying to Yale?” Sam asks, sat cross legged on the floor as he rearranges his collection of Christmas presents (books, for the large part, freaking nerd), like he isn’t over six freaking foot and basically an adult. With Bobby’s scrubbed together Christmas tree behind him and the fact that Dean's so full of Christmas dinner he can barely move, it's almost like how Dean envisioned their childhood could have been if everything was different. Good, warm and settled.

“He said that my little brother is a snot nosed genius brat whose too smart for his own good.” Dean says, as Bobby returns to the front room with the good scotch and an eye roll. “Thanks, Bobby.”

“You didn't tell him,” Sam says, because of course Sam has always been able to see straight through Dean’s bullshit. 

“Okay, fine, I didn't tell him,” Dean says, which he's actually pretty sure he doesn't regret. Sam applying to Yale early admissions smacks of Dean asking him to do it, which he didn't (and he's pretty sure that if he did ask, Sam wouldn't have done it), and it reads like a proposal of commitment that Dean's not sure he has in him. Cas would read into it either way, and Dean's not sure what that book would say but he's pretty convinced that Dean doesn't come off well in any interpretation. There’s stuff they _do_ need to talk about - ideally as soon as Cas can find a moment to freaking call him - but Sam’s Yale application is actually pretty far down this list. 

He hasn’t exactly talked about Sam applying to Yale with _Sam_ , either, but… that’s a _after Christmas_ problem. 

“Why?”

“Because, Sam,” Dean says, swirling his scotch round his glass and watching the warm orange liquid spin. He probably should have anticipated this coming up in conversation at some point. He probably should have anticipated that it was going to happen on Christmas freaking day, because that’s just the kind of crap that happens in Dean’s life. 

It's frankly remarkable that Sam hasn't noticed him constantly checking his phone, getting steadily crabbier as they days tick on, like he's going through freaking withdrawal. The only reason Sam hasn't picked up on it is because he's in his own Christmas- exhaustion haze, and Sarah.

“Well, when is he coming in January?”

Fucking _wonderful_. 

“He's not.”

“He's not coming?” 

“Are you high? I just said, he's not coming,” Dean says, glancing up to search for an escape exit. He should have taken Ellen and Jo up on their traditional ‘Christmas walk’, but the whole thing sounded so batshit insane that he _obviously_ opted for continuing to sit in Bobby’s warm front room with his little brother as they debate what Christmas movie they could all stand watching. Now, he’s not sure exactly _how_ he’s supposed to ditch the interrogation. 

“Why?”

“Ask him,” Dean says, petulant, even though there's the risk that he freaking would.

“Dean, what's going on?”

“He's not coming because I haven't made a goddamn decision, and he's not - look, Sam. He's not coming in January, and that's that.”

“Is it? That's _that_?” 

“No,” Dean says, sending a distress call look to Bobby, who raises an eyebrow at him in an _as if_ kind of way. No freaking use, at all. This whole damn family is out to ruin his Christmas buzz. 

“Then when is he coming to visit ? Or you going to Yale?”

“Spring break.”

“Spring break?”

That’s freaking _it_. 

“Sam, what is your problem?” Dean asks, setting down his scotch to look at him straight on. If Sam has a point to make, than he can make it, because Dean was looking forward to his Christmas break and most of the crap he was looking forward to has been stripped away, or watered down, or just plain ain't gonna happen. If Sam thinks he gets a goddamn opinion about Cas’ visiting schedule, then Dean's plenty ready for an argument with something.

“Why are you self sabotaging this?”

“Because.”

“Because what?”

“ _Because_ I don't know what I want.”

“Bullshit,” Sam throws back, quick as a shot, voice hot and full of the promise of a full on confrontation which Dean wasn’t really expecting. Sure, Sam is a pain in the ass with more opinions on everything that he’s entitled to, but he wasn’t anticipating Sam wanting to get into a full blown _fight_ about it. “You don't spend two hours a day on the phone to the same guy and not know what you want.” 

“It's not that simple, Sam, and that's a total fucking exaggeration.”

“No it isn't, Dean. And it is _that_ simple.”

“I don't - I haven't forgiven him.”

“Yes you have, Dean. You forgave him the second he drunk dialed you and you drove across state lines to see if he was okay. This is just your usual bullcrap of trying to protect yourself from getting hurt -”

And that is just freaking _peachy_.

“ - You _said_ not to let him back in Sam. You said it was a bad idea _because_ he took off and screwed me -”

“Yeah, Dean, and you did it anyway, because you're stupidly in love with the guy and _you dont care_ what he did last time - and I accepted that, Dean, because it made _you happy_ and because that's what _you wanted_. Why the hell can't you accept it?”

“Because he _did_ hurt me, goddamnit,” Dean blurts out, half sat on the edge of Bobby’s sofa, balling his hands into fists. “He freaking _left_ right before you weren't allowed to stay with me and right before Dad died, and he wasn't there and I … I fucking needed him.”

“You told Gabriel to tell him you were done,” Sam says, sharp and way too goddamn reasonable, given Sam is the one who's been against this whole thing the whole damn time. Now, apparently, Cas is completely absolved from blame and _Dean’s_ in the wrong, and the injustice of it swells up in his lungs. This is not Sam’s call. This is not Sam’s _business_. “Dean. You think for a second that if you'd rang him and told him dad was dead that he wouldn't have gotten on a plane? Dean. That's not Castiel's fault. I _still_ think he shouldn't have freaking called you and stirred all this up, but it's pretty damn obvious to me that he's just as stupidly in love with you as you are with him.”

“This isn't a fucking disney movie Sam. Things don't work out just people people are in love.”

“Yeah, well, maybe they wouldn't have worked out in Disney land if Rapunzel decided it was doomed to fail so refused to let down her goddamn hair.”

“I - what? Are you calling me a princess?”

“It isn't going to work if you don't even _try_.”

“You don't think I haven't been killing myself trying to make this work?”

“No,” Sam says, “I don't. Go to fucking Connecticut, Dean. Drive if you can't get on a plane. Call a spade a fucking spade and update your relationship status. Make good with Gabriel and make plans, Dean. I'm not saying you have to move to New Haven, I'm saying book a trip. Do _something_ for yourself because you want to -”

“ - Sam.”

“And don't use me as an excuse for why you can't have what you want, Dean, I'm done with it,” Sam says, unfolding his limbs and standing up, his whole stature radiating tension. “I hate it. I have _never been_ your responsibility and I'm not your responsibility now. I appreciate everything you've done, but it stops right now. You are not planning your life around my happiness. I hate it, Dean. It's so much pressure, all the time. It's like I have to be happy enough for both of us and I just --- I want you to have a fucking life, Dean. To not feel guilty for getting drunk and being an idiot. To not work so hard so that I can have things. You're my brother, not my parent and you --”

“Sam,” Dean says again, chest pounding now, because, because - 

“You're in love with Cas, Dean. The only reason I applied to Yale was because I knew you wouldn't let yourself even _think_ about your happiness without me in the equation, and you would never have asked. I’m not saying I’m going there. I’m not saying I think it’s a good idea. I’m saying you need to act like an _adult_ and work out what the hell you’re doing with your life, and get the hell away from _mine_ ,” Sam finishes, then he’s storming up the stairs with his fists clenched, slamming the door behind him.

“Dean,” Bobby begins.

“Fuck this,” Dean says, “I’m going home.”

“The hell am I letting you drive,” 

“Fine,” Dean snaps, standing up, “I’m going for a fucking Christmas walk.” 

He’s burst out into Bobby’s driveway before he hears Bobby’s gruff response and the cold of a Kansas winter feels like a slap to the face. _Sam doesn’t want him_. He knows that’s not what Sam actually said, but that’s all he can hear ringing round his head. _Sam doesn’t want him_ , and that’s his deepest, most ingrained fear, and Sam just… just... dragged it all out and told him he _hates it_. 

And all he wants to do is talk to Cas. 

_Cas_ would know how to smooth over Sam’s words and rearrange them in Dean’s head so they didn’t smack like reject and hurt and fucking pain, but he can’t talk to him, because Cas is in goddamn _California_ and he can’t call him because he won’t tell his family about him until they put a label on it, and, and ---.

He’s miserable and he’s miserable because of his own shitty decisions. He fucking _aches_ and it hurts and he…. He told Cas he wouldn’t text him, or call him, if that’s what Cas wanted. He said he could _cool off_ for a couple of weeks and he thought he meant it, but it’s Christmas Day and his brother _hates_ the way Dean makes his life choices (and he is just barely, barely, managing to stop his traitorous fucking brain from translating ‘I hate it’ into _’I hate you_ ’ because he’s pretty goddamn sure that would be _it_ for him) and he wants… he wants Cas to pull him into a hug. He wants to allow Cas to smooth a hand over his back and coax him into leaning on his shoulder. He wants Cas to _be here_ and tell him that it’s _going to be fine_. 

They wouldn't even have to talk about it, necessarily. He just wants them to talk about _something_. 

Sam is going to go to college and Dean probably isn’t invited, but it will be okay. It will be okay. Sam will probably still let Dean have Thanksgivings and Christmases and Spring Breaks and the summer, and he’ll… he’ll call him and text him. It’ll be _okay_. Sam probably won’t go as far away as he physically can to spite Dean. He’s not… he’s not trying to _escape from Dean_ , he just… he’s just trying to escape, generally.

It’s not like Sam didn’t warn him it was coming.

He really, really wants to speak to Cas.

In the end, he settles for thumbing out a _Merry Christmas_ text that’s technically illicit, and works on the car in Bobby’s freezing ass garage until he’s too numb to move his hands anymore. 

That night he's too consumed by his bullshit emotions to sleep. He lies on his side with his hands balled into fists, utterly still, for forty minutes before he shuts his eyes and tries to talk himself off the edge of cliff top.

If Cas were here, he'd curl up against his back. Use Dean's body heat to warm up his hands. Press a kiss in between his shoulder blades. Wrap his arms around him till even a shitty motel room in the middle of freaking nowhere could feel like home. 

Dean unclenches his fists and sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk whether you've ever looked at a plan for a story that you wrote a long time ago and then realised that you were waaaaaayyyy cruel but you're already on the train so THATs where you're going now? 
> 
> But, yes.
> 
> Two more chapters. Good luck everyone.


	16. Chapter 16

Cas replies to his Christmas text the next day with an innocuous _Merry Christmas_ text that makes him so goddamn angry he nearly throws his phone out the window.

* 

Sam is the one who decided to start the conversation again three days later, with an expression like he's been working on it for days. Dean’s not in the goddamn mood for any kind of _talk_ about anything, because he’s grumpy and fed up and strung out and he’s been avoiding Sam and he’s fed up and maybe he’s gonna join Cas in hating Christmas for the rest of time, because he is done with this crap. 

“Dean,” Sam says, hovering next to the sofa, “This is my decision.”

“Right,” Dean says, turning off the television and heading to the kitchen.

“I'm _not_ having you move somewhere without a plan or some consideration of what you want in your life,” Sam says, all concentrated puppy dog eyes, “Dean.”

“You can’t make me stay here on my own,” Dean says, walking to the sink with the coffee pot and filling it up without looking at him.

“You're not on your own, Dean, you have Bobby.”

“Sam. You get a decision, and so do I. I'm not having some kid decide what I'm allowed to do.” 

“You're not _deciding what to do_ , Dean, you're following me -”

“- and that is my freaking decision.”

“ _Dean_ , I really think we need to talk about this -”

Dean turns around to face him with his chest pounding. 

“ - don't act like you understand what crap is going to make me happy Sam. Maybe you don't give a damn about us, but you're the most important person in my fucking existence, Sam, and you're the one damn thing that's been good about our childhood. About my _life_. You’re my _brother_ and if you think being hundreds of mile away is gonna do anything but _gut me_ then you haven't been paying attention.”

“Dean.”

“I get wanting to be fucking normal, but, dammit Sammy. You're my family. You’re the only family I've got and you're… you’re seventeen. You - you don't have to prove you can do it on your own, Sam, we get it. I know. I goddamn know, but _I need you_.”

“Dean,” Sam says, “I'm not saying you can't move, I just -”

“Damn fucking straight I can.” 

“But, Dean -”

“ - Sam. I am not living more than a days’ drive away from you. I flat out fucking refuse. I've done it with Cas, and it's crap and it's fucking killing me, and I am not doing it with you.”

“You're not living with me,” Sam says, voice hot, resigned, and that’s a victory of _some sorts_. It doesn’t feel like he should be a goddamn victory for his damn brother to concede this much, but but it’s something… 

“Fine,” Dean snaps, like Sam being so impassioned about them not living together doesn't directly make him feel like crap. Like this whole conversation doesn’t feel like it’s _breaking him_. 

“And - you're not moving unless you have a job that's at least as good as what you have with Rufus,”

“- Sam.”

“And… you don't follow me for a month. “

“And what the hell are you going to do to stop me?” 

“I won't take your calls. I'm serious about this, Dean. I don't want you to follow me, at all, but you'd never let me win that argument -”

“ - You don't want me around _this_ much?”

“That's not what I'm saying,” Sam says, “Dean. You know… You _know_ I want you around, okay? But -- you need to do something for yourself.”

“Living in the same goddamn state as you _is_ something for myself.”

“Then tell me where you want me to go to college,” Sam says, with enough heat that Dean’s whole damn brain sticks.

_Tell me where you want me to go to college_.

“What?” 

“Dean, fucking listen to me. If you have to, have to, make this move with me, then I have to take into account what you want -”

“ - That does not work for me, Sammy. That’s not the deal. You don’t compromise what you want for _me_.”

“ - Well fucking deal with it,” Sam says, “You're not having it both ways.”

Dean’s chest hurts. 

“Sam, this is your goddamn decision. You’ve made that pretty clear.”

“And it affects you!” Sam says, “Dean. I don't know what I'm going to do with your preferences. I haven't decided. I don't know --- I don't know that I _am_ going to let you follow me -”

“You can't fucking stop me,” Dean grates out, “You just try, Sam.”

“Why are you making this so damn hard? Sam demands, “I had this plan, Dean, when I was a kid. I knew Dad wouldn't let me go to college, not one I wanted, so I was gonna just leave. Pack my bags and go when I'd already worked out the rest of it and… And I guess I thought that one good thing about him not being around is that that wasn't necessary any more -”

“Are you seriously threatening to take off in the middle of the damn night?”

“No,” Sam says, frustrated, “That’s not what I’m _saying_ , Dean.”

“Don't _act_ like you're doing me some favour sticking around. If you're so desperate to get away from me than fucking go -”

“ - I'm not , Dean, I'm _not_. I’m trying to explain how I _feel_ -”

“ - you are a _kid_ Sam. You don’t know shit about the world, but don't act like this shit doesn't have consequences on me. You like it or not, Sammy, your crap has consequences on my life because you're my little brother and I love you and I ain't being made to feel bad about wanting us in the same fucking state for anyone.”

“Okay,” Sam says, with an exhale. “Then tell me what _you want_ and I'll think about it.”

“You’ll _think about it_?” Dean asks, turning back around to jab at the coffee machine. There’s something painful lodged in his throat and _fuck_ , this whole stupid festive season can fuck off, because… because he’s got no damn clue if he’s winning or losing this battle anymore, and he doesn’t know what victory even looks like. “You’ll _think about it_.”

“God, Dean, I haven’t even got into any freaking colleges yet,” Sam says, “This is so _stupid_.”

“Stupid.”

“We’re talking about college, Dean, I’m not _dying_. I just… you are _not_ ruining your life, for me. It’s not happening on my watch.” 

“ _Moving_ isn’t ruining my damn life,” Dean says, topping up a cup of coffee, “Not exactly having a fucking great time here, Sam, I’ve hated fucking Lawrence since we got here. I… why aren’t you allowed to be my priority?” 

“Whether _you_ want to acknowledge it or not, I’m not you’re only freaking priority Dean. I just,” Sam says, some of the fight leaking out of his shoulders, “I _just want_ you to think about what you want, Dean, and _I_ will choose what to do with that, but you can’t --- you can’t live like this, and I’m not... not going along with some stupid plan you have to just follow me around without having an opinion like you did with Dad rather than find something for yourself. I… whatever, Dean, I’m going to see Sarah, but I’m not arguing with you about this again,” Sam says, absently taking Cas’ travel mug out of the cupboard and filling it with coffee like it’s _always_ been part of their lives.

“You’re not going to argue with me about this,” Dean says, flatly, “That’s it. Conversation over.”

“Not conversation over,” Sam says, “ _Argument over_. Dean. We don’t even know what my options _are_ yet. I might not have a choice, but… stop pretending this isn’t happening. Call Cas. Ask him what _he_ wants out of the future. _You_ make a decision.” 

“You’ve been spending a helluva lot of time with someone you broke up with in the name of concentrating on your exams,” Dean says, coffee in hand as he returns to the sofa, feeling a little bit like he’s been beaten up by his goddamn _feelings_ , and if that means he’s turning in a total douchebag making cheap shots about freaking Sarah, then so be it. 

“What?”

“For a kid who asked me what the _point_ of dating Cas was when he’d already agreed to split up when he moved, you’re doing a stellar job of repeating my mistakes.”

“I’m not you, Dean,” Sam says, expression sour, “And I’m not fighting with you anymore. That’s it. Later, Dean.”

*

Sam gets back home to find him in the same position he left him in, phone a dead weight in one hand as he stares at the Netflix show he definitely hates. He’s swapped his coffee for the crappy bottle of scotch he keeps under the sink for the kind of days where his insides feel like they’ve been dug out with a blunt spoon, and he really, really wants to talk to Cas, and he can’t.

He _can’t_. 

He’s got no _idea_ what’s going on with Sam or what the hell Sam even wants from him, but this whole goddamn week _sucks_. Christmas can go fuck itself and Dean’s going to keep sipping his damn whiskey straight from the bottle until everything feels easier.

“Dean,” Sam says, voice not quite flat, not quite a question. Dean must look fucking terrible, because Dean’s pretty sure that Sam is still mad at him. Or at least, frustrated and fed up and so freaking _over_ Dean’s bullshit, but for some reason _still_ doesn’t leave. “What's going on?”

“Cas,” Dean begins, slamming his jaw shut and swallowing. His gut hurts. Actually, everything fucking hurts. His head and his lungs and his stupid _silent_ phone can just _fuck off_. The whole goddamn reason he didn’t want to tie this all up in a bow and call it a relationship is because he knew it would _feel like this_ , because it always winds up feeling exactly like this. “Hasn't told his family about us so he… He asked me not to fucking contact at him till the third, so.”

“Dean,”

“Think… Think I'm gonna lose him, Sammy. That I'm gonna fuck it all up,” Dean says, more honest than he’s ever been with Sam about Cas, ever, thanks to the eclectic mix of whiskey and feeling like he’s been totally steamrolled by freaking everything all at once. Sam going to college. Dean’s whole damn _future_ stretched out and laid bare and he _doesn’t like it_. And Cas… Cas is in California and doesn’t want Dean to talk him. Doesn’t want his family, his family who freaking love and adore him, to know about _Dean._ “Haven't talked in a mealsey four days and I'm going fucking crazy,”

Sam sits on the arm of the sofa and chews it over in his head for a few long seconds, then nudges him with his knee. When he speaks again, he sounds softer. More like the kid brother who used to crawl into Dean’s bed whenever either of them were sad.

“Dean,” Sam says, almost light, “About that Die Hard marathon.”

*

Two days before New Year’s Eve, Sam presents him with his latest _college lists_ and asks for Dean’s goddamn opinion about it. Dean slams his jaw shut and tells Sam he’ll take a rain check. Sam rolls his eyes and does not push him about it any further. 

*

He gave Sam possession of his damn phone yesterday to stop him doing anything fucking stupid, like calling Cas up and saying _screw your damn family, I'm having a crappy Christmas and I need you_ , and it’s actually made the whole New Year's’ Eve thing much more manageable. Whenever he goes to check his phone ( _fuck, he’s pathetic_ ), his brain trips over the fact that Sam has his damn phone, and that that is totally freaking _fine_ , because the third of January is getting closer by the second and then… then, then he can sort out of the his goddamn life.

“And… _raise_ ,” Dean says, eyeing Jo over the dinner table, glancing back down at his cards. He’s got a high card of a _six_ and sure as hell can’t win, but there’s something about Jo’s eyebrow raise that makes him not want to back down for anything.

“Match,” Jo says, adding another chip to the pile, “So. Now, you’re still not-dating your ex, but you’re also…. Not talking to him?”

“Aint rising to your bait, Harvelle,” Dean says, “Raise.”

“No bait, Winchester,” Jo says, glancing down at his cards, then back up to meet his gaze. “ _Match_.” 

“I - you know what? I’m calling it.”

“You’re calling it, what? A total ex related car crash?”

“ _Calling_ your bluff,” Dean says, “We are _working out if we can work it out_ -”

“ - and he’s not talking you because…?”

“Cards, Harvelle.”

“Fine... we can call,” Jo says, flicking over her cards and quirking up her eyebrows, “Give me your money, Winchester.”

“Sonuvabitch,” Dean mutters, as Jo turns over her cards to reveal her slightly less shitty high _seven_. Jo’s too goddamn good at playing him. Too good at poker. “You know what? Screw this dumbass game. Bobby - you need help in the kitchen?”

“Nope,” Bobby grunts back.

“Dean, you have a text -”

“ - Cas?” Dean asks, way too fucking eager for his own good, but given Sam is babysitting his phone, he’s almost beyond the point of being able to be embarrassed about this kind of crap.

“Uh, no,” Sam returns, “Who’s Lisa?”

“Lisa?”

“Yep, Lisa Braeden. Deal me in, Jo,” Sam says, pulling up a seat. Jo offers him a salute and deals Dean straight back in which, okay, because he can beat _Sam_ , even if Jo is apparently some freaking poker wizard. 

“Huh,” Dean says, “Bendy Yoga teacher, Lisa.”

“She’s…. In Kansas City next week and wants to return your shirt,” Sam says, setting Dean’s phone down in front of him and raising his eyebrows. “Booty call, huh?” 

“She called me Dean _best she ever had_ Winchester.”

“Sheltered life?” Jo suggests.

“Hey, I’m _awesome_.”

“You’re a damn idjit and an oversharer,” Bobby says, rolling his eyes, “Deal me in, Jo.”

“Phone, Sam - “

“ - you won’t text Cas?”

“No,” Dean rolls his eyes, holding his hand out, “Just give me the damn phone, Sam, I gotta tell Lise this sweet piece of ass is off the market.”

“Ish,” Jo puts in.

“Shut your mouth, Jo,” Dean says, reading over the message from Lisa again before stopping short, because Jo has a _point_ and he’s not all that sure what to say other than _it’s really goddamn complicated_. 

And… what difference would it actually make, anyway, if he used the word boyfriend? 

Cas wouldn’t have spent the last couple of weeks pretending he didn’t exist right now and wouldn’t be cancelling visits until Dean had made up his goddamn mind and put a freaking _label_ on it. They’d still be battling with the long distance and Dean still wouldn’t have a clue how the hell they can work out having a _future_ amidst all the rest of their crap, but he’d still feel _exactly like he does right now_. 

It’s complicated. Way too fucking complicated. 

_Sorry Lise, trying to work things out with that high school ex._. 

Dean’s drank another two beers and lost another two rounds of poker (fucking _Jo_ ) before he gets a message back from Lisa, who sends a blunt and kind of baffling _not a date, Dean, just want to return your shirt over coffee_ that Dean doesn’t really know what to do with, and then -

And then Cas texts him to say he’s going to try and call him tonight.

“Keeping my phone, Sammy,” Dean says and, fucking _yes_ Cas, Cas, Cas, is somewhere in LA and misses Dean at least _enough_ to break his stupid non-contact rule before the third, and it’s _New Year’s Eve_ and they’re having Bobby’s beef stew and Ellen’s pie and poker, and Sam isn’t freaking arguing with him right now, and _maybe_ tonight will be okay.

He texts Lisa back a _sure_ and just about resists the urge to send Cas a long, sprawling text message about how much he’s fucking missed him and instead just sends up a thumbs up before pocketing his phone with a proper, full on smile. 

“Wow, Winchester,” Jo says, smirking into her hand of cards, “You’re a totally goner.”

“And so,” Dean says, pushing his chips into the pot, “Is you’re freakin’ money.”

*

It’s past midnight and his phone has been traitorously, torturously silent, and Dean’s compensated by drinking way, way too much. They’re staying at Bobby’s because everyone drives like an asshole on New Years’ Eve and because it’s late and because Dean was over the limit about five hours ago, and it is _late_ and - 

Bobby claps a hand on his shoulder where he’s pretending not to have a staring competition with his goddamn phone and says _get some damn sleep, son._. 

*

Dean’s phone buzzes him awake at 3AM, just after his fallen into that deep, heavy type of unconsciousness that comes with drinking too much beer and whiskey. He’s groggy and confused for all of five seconds before he sees _incoming call from Castiel_ on his phone screen. 

“I - hey,” Dean mutters, voice thick from sleep as he scrambles to get out of bed and answer the thing. He spares a glance at Sam, who looks more or less dead to the world in the other rickety camp bed in Bobby’s guest room. He’s slept off the worst of the alcohol and his head’s beginning to hurt, but all of that is eclipsed because _Cas_. “Cas.”

“Hello Dean,” Cas says, his own voice quieter than normal. An almost whisper. “Happy new year.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Dean says, chest turning over because, oh God, he’s missed him so fucking much. It’s been a less than _two weeks_ of no calls and limited texts and now it feels like someone is using his heart as a goddamn stress ball and -- and he had no goddamn idea how much the thread of communication with Cas, steady and constant, had made his life bearable again. To have _something_ going on outside his little brother and turning up to work every damn day. “H _ey_ , Cas,” Dean says, picking his way across the room and shutting the door behind him with a soft thud.

“It must be very late there. I’m sorry for waking you up.”

“Screw that,” Dean mutters, because the concept of him caring about Cas waking him up for the first real time conversation they’ve had in days is goddamn ridiculous. He’s just _missed him_ ; the chill of it has burrowed it’s way into Dean’s bones and it hurt. He wasn’t expecting it to. He expected it to suck, but he didn’t expect it to sharpen itself into a point and _hurt_. “Hey.”

“I believe we’ve done that part of the conversation,” Cas says, all mellow and not quite snarky. Cas is lovely. He’s fucking _perfect_ with his callous voice and almost-smooth words, his bed head, his unapologetic sincerity about everything, his hellbent ambition to _love_ everyone back to life. The fact that Dean didn’t even have phone calls for years is in-freaking-comprehensible. The fact that he doesn’t get to see him until March feels like someone punctured his liver. 

“Fuck I... I love you,” Dean says, the words tumbling out like they’ve been locked up and held hostage. He didn’t _mean_ to say that, because it’s the first time he’s offered that up without Cas saying it first and Cas deserves better than Dean spilling his emotions all over the goddamn place because it’s New Year’s Eve and he’s _lonely_ and he’s lonely because he _wants Cas_ , when Dean’s pretty sure that the only thing stopping that from happening right now is Dean, and the world’s bullshit. Dean’s fucking broken, always has been, and now he’s halfway down Bobby’s stairs having a goddamn meltdown.

The words have cut off all his momentum. He wasn’t really _going_ anywhere, anyway, except from out of ear shot of Sam. His car, maybe, but now he’s knees are threatening to protest and his _chest fucking hurts_ and Cas is, finally, finally on the other end of the phone.

Dean sits on Bobby’s stairs with his head in his hands and breathes. 

Cas is silent. He probably wasn’t expecting _that_.

“I,” Dean begins, then swallows. It feels a little like he’s going to fucking cry, which is bullshit. He hasn’t _cried_ since a little after it hit him that John Winchester was really dead, gone, _gone not just by choice_ and he’s not going to goddamn cry _now_. “Hey.”

“Hello Dean,” Cas says again, gently. He's caught up with the memo that Dean’s goddamn nutcase now, anyway. “Gabriel’s asleep.”

“Everyone here, too.” 

His voice sounds wrong. It _sounds_ like he has been crying, which is just fucking perfect.

“Everyone?”

“I’m at Bobby’s,” Dean says, “We crashed here.”

“Ah,” Cas says, “Dean-”

“ - I just, missed you.”

“Dean.” 

“I _hate_ this.”

“I know,” Cas says “In a couple of days I’ll be back in New Haven.”

“You mean, in a couple of days you’ll _only_ be one thousand three hundred miles away again?” 

“I can try and call you tomorrow,”

“No,” Dean says, clenching his jaw. Cas made his decision about this already. Dean’s not going to emotionally blackmail him into changing his stance because he’s a total freaking sap. That is _not happening_. “You’ve gotta do what you gotta do. It’s… the distance didn’t feel so _hard_ before. It sucked, but it wasn’t… it wasn’t so damn painful.”

“Dean, I love you too.”

“ _All I want_ is a godamn hug,” Dean says, like it’s a damn confession that he’s had to dredge up from some dark place in his soul, which is a lot of freaking crap. It’s not a secret. He’s not even ashamed of it. All of this would be so much _easier_ if he could sift through all this baggage in his head and just -- do what he _wanted_. Say what he wanted. Go after what he wanted. “Actually, that’s bullshit. I want… I want you _here_.”

“What are you saying, Dean?”

“Nothing,” Dean exhales, “I don’t know. I don’t _fucking know_ anymore, Cas, but I… I _hate this_. I _hate_ that I can’t just… get on a goddamn plane and meet you in New Haven. There is so much crap we haven’t worked out yet, _so much_ , but then I… can’t call you for eight days and I’m crawling out of skin missing you and it all feels like it should be _so damn easy_ to fix, but it’s _not_. Longing is a goddamn bitch.”

“Yes,” Cas agrees, “It is.” 

“You know that there’s no one, not ever, that I…”

“Yes,” Cas says, “I know.”

“I am really fucking terrified of needing you again, Cas,” Dean says, through the adrenaline and the gut-wrenching relief over having the world’s shittiest conversation at 3am -- but at least it’s _something_ \- and through the part of him that’s still trying to make the case that Cas shouldn’t be forgiven. Obviously, it’s too goddamn late, because he already needs Cas.

They wouldn’t be in this mess if Dean didn’t _need_ him. 

It’s not the time to talk about this right now. Not when they’re both half-whispering to avoid waking people up, and not when it’s now officially a whole new year and they both probably drank too much celebrating it. He doesn’t want to talk about any of the big stuff right now. “Did you, uh, did you have a good Christmas?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “Did you?”

“No,” Dean breathes, “But I’ll tell you about that when you call me from New Haven.”

“Okay,” Cas says, “Dean, it’s… helpful to me if you are more candid about how you’re feeling. If I’d… _known_ that this is how you would feel…”

“Didn’t know I _would_ feel like this,” Dean says, “Good times.”

“I need to go, Gabriel is… ” Cas says, the epitome of regretful. Dean rubs the back of his neck and tries not to say something unreasonable or ridiculous like _don’t, not yet, just give me a few more minutes_ because apparently he is completely freaking broken. He is floored by this whole goddamn thing. He has been flayed by his fucking feelings. “But…. this hasn’t been a ‘good time’ for me either.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean mutters, “I… sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,”

“I fucking love you, Cas.”

“You too,” Cas says, voice as smooth and rich as Bobby’s best scotch, “I am going to call you tomorrow.”

“Whatever,” Dean says, then, “You should. If you… if you can.”

“I will find a way,” Cas says, “Good night, Dean. Happy new year.”

“Happy new year,” Dean breathes back, in the second before Cas hangs up. “Goodnight.”

He’s still sat on Bobby’s stairs. It still feels like there’s been an avalanche of emotional bullshit that’s sitting at the back of his throat, bitter and acrid, but he feels _better_ somehow. There’s some sense of comfort lining his gut amongst all of it, which is so damn _stupid_ given the shitshow of that conversation. 

Fuck. 

_Fuck_. 

“Dean,” Bobby says, from the top of the stairs. Dean blinks and is aware, on one level, that he should be embarrassed that it seems a lot like Bobby heard a _lot_ of that conversation, which is about as vulnerable and honest as he’s ever been with anyone. That Bobby heard him pouring his fucking heart out in the middle of the night, but he’s too… he’s too emotionally saturated to feel anything else. “Peel yourself off the floor, y’idjit. I’m making cocoa.”

Dean follows him down to the kitchen and sits down at the kitchen table. None of the evening feels exactly _real_. There’s a dream-like quality to Bobby making goddamn _cocoa_ in his pyjamas while Dean sits there and feels his feelings like they were specifically designed to shred his internal organs. 

“That’s some bull crap you’re carrying right there, son,” Bobby says, eventually, after he’s set down two mugs of cocoa on the table and sat down heavily. Dean should probably ask how much Bobby heard of the whole thing, but he’s not sure it really goddamn matters. He started out sounding about as desperate and needy as he did at the end; it doesn’t really make a damn difference.

It always helps, a little, when Bobby calls him son.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Dean says, the words heavy and wooden, and like they’re coming from far away.

“What do you _want_ to happen?”

“I,” Dean begins, staring at his damn mug with his gaze swimming. He curls his hand around the mug of cocoa even though he doesn’t even like the damn stuff, squaring his shoulders against the question. “It’s not that easy, Bobby.”

“I ain't asking what you to colour it with what everyone else _wants_. I’m sayin’ if you strip all that back, in Dean Winchester’s ideal freaking world -- what do you _want_ to happen?”

_What does he want?_

Seems like all everyone _does_ lately is ask him what he wants, as if what he wants has ever mattered to the freaking universe. 

“I… I want Sam to want to go to Yale,” Dean says, swallows, but it sounds wrong out loud. He can’t _ask for that_ , because of all the reasons that Sam spat at him in Bobby’s front room, and in their apartment, and because of all the reasons Sam has been reminding him of at every damn opportunity. “I want him to _want me_ to come with him. He doesn’t… he doesn’t have to _need me_ , but I want him to goddamn want me to be there, anyway. Or I want Cas to want to go to study in Stanford or _wherever_ it is that Sam winds up wanting to go, and I want it --- I want them to want that _independently_ of me. I want there to be a Ivy League fucking university right _here_ so no one has to go anywhere -- I want, I want the world to work in _my favour_ for once, instead of goddamn screwing me every single time. I want _what I want_ to be factored in to someone else decision, just _once_. I wanted what I want to fucking matter, but it _doesn’t_ Bobby, because I never get to …. I don’t get a _choice_ , in any of this. It’s never been _about me_ because… because Dad fucking sucked, so I had to pick up the slack, and then he left and I… I didn’t get to look after Sam, and then I didn’t get to be looked after, and… and Cas had to go to college, Bobby, he had to _go_ and Ellen had to stand up in court and say I wasn’t good enough to look after Sammy, because she _had to_ , she had to do it, and Sam… him getting emancipated from the state was about _Sam_ and he --- I know he’s gotta go, Bobby, I know he does, but it … I roll with the punches and I work and I earn money, and that’s it. It has never, not for one second, been about _me_ and now everyone’s acting like I have some kind of choice but I … I _want_ for none of this to be my responsibility. I want for it to never have _been_ my responsibility in the goddamn first place,” Dean says, shoulders shaking, hands gripped around his cocoa so tightly his knuckles are white. He’s lost his momentum now. His voice is shot. His throat is clogged up with grief and tears he is _not_ going to cry in front of Bobby in the middle of the night and… and it _hurts_. His voice is small when he starts again. “I want…. I want them both within a two hour drive of each other, and for them to want me there too.”

“Okay,” Bobby says, fixing him with his usual gruff stare, “I ain't your fairy godmother. I aint saying you have the power to make that happen. Your brother -- he’s gotta make his own decision. He’s a mighty good kid, but he’s a kid, and he’s gotta make his own call, but d’you ever think, y’idjit , that unless you _tell him_ what you want, it workin’ itself out on his own is pretty damn unlikely?”

“Bobby.”

“Now, you’ve gotta point. You’ve been crapped on plenty and your Daddy put a lot on you, but -- your brother didn’t take his own ass to court to have something else to write on his damn college application, he did it because you were killing yourself trying to get him in your spare room. Sam could have taken another couple of years at Sonny’s, Dean. I aint saying that some of that stuff wasn’t for him, but it sure as shit wasn’t about _him_ , and that boy of yours… you think he wouldn’t look at whatever colleges Sam looked at if you asked him too? You think someone who walks into my kitchen and apologies to me for breaking your damn heart because you won’t let him apologise to _you_ isn’t prepared to factor in what you want into his life?” Bobby asks, gaze unwavering. He hadn’t known Cas had done that when they were at Bobby’s, last. Has no idea when he _could have_ done, but it sounds like something Cas would do. It sounds a lot like something Cas would do. “I aint saying the world hasn’t screwed you, but I _am_ saying that from my angle, looks like you’re doing some contorting to screw yourself right now.”

“You think… you think Sam would go for it?” Dean asks, lump thick in his throat.

“Do I look like a damn psychic to you?” Bobby asks, “But he asked for your damn opinion, so you tell him what you want, and then you _work with_ what he chooses. And drink your damn cocoa.” 

“You drink your damn cocoa,” Dean mutters, finally picking it up and taking a sip. It’s too sweet and a little lukewarm, but he sits there in anyway because Bobby Singer calls him son and Bobby singer made him the damn stuff.

“Damned fool,,” Bobby says, which is the Bobby Singer version of a pet name, and sits with him until he’s drank all of it in a warm silence.

*

He wakes up for the second time of the new year feeling much more at peace with everything. It’s illogical, because nothing has changed since last night. If anything, pouring out his goddamn soul to Cas was the exact opposite of helpful, because now Cas is going to worrying about him all the way in California with not a damn thing he can do about it, but it happened. And Cas _called_. They talked. In two days, he’ll be back in New Haven and they can have a proper, honest to god conversation about everything and -- 

“Your brother look like he’s joining the land of the living any time soon?” Bobby asks, as Dean trudges to the kitchen for breakfast. His head hurts with the suggestion of a hangover that hasn’t quite happened and… 

He wants Cas. He’s wanted that for a long time. 

“Nope,” Dean says, dropping a slice of toast in the toaster, “Sleeping beauty’s out for the count.”

“Mhmm,” Bobby says, eyeing him over his battered old wooden table, “And how are _you_ this morning?” 

“Peachy,” Dean throws back, nodding at the stack of Sam’s crap that apparently now lives in Bobby’s place as well as their own apartment. “This Sam’s college list?”

“The latest edition,” Bobby says, “Kids got you a _Dean’s opinion_ column if you’re gonna pull your head out of your damn ass for long enough to fill it in.”

“There’s a freaking chart now?”

“Don’t feel too special,” Bobby grouses, “I get a column too. Whether you get a damn weighting’s a whole other question.”

“Kid’s a full grown freak,” Dean says sagely, picking up the list and glancing over it. Dean’s pretty sure they’ve gone over this six thousand times, but Sam is being thorough about this. His instinct was Stanford (which makes Dean feel vaguely antsy everytime he thinks about it too hard, because it is _so damn far_ from here, from Cas, from everything), but his checklist said Columbia. His supervisor thinks Brown is a good fit, but he applied for Yale early admissions. Dean’s got no freaking idea what’s going to happen when Sam _actually_ has options to choose between --- probably another sixteen goddamn arguments.

He’s finished his toast, is half way through is coffee and less than a quarter of the way through reading Sam’s criteria for rating when his phone pings with an innocuous _good morning_ text from Cas. There’s no reference to the total breakdown he had last night, or to the fact that their messages have been scarce due to the necessity of secrecy. Dean’s chest hums with something good and warm and easy. He texts back _morning_ and feels almost content, before he feels Bobby’s eyes on him across the table. 

“I, uh, think I’m gonna fill this in,” Dean says, standing up and wedging Sam’s notepad under his arm. 

“Do you now?”

“Yep,” Dean says, “I’m… gonna take a drive.”

“Good,” Bobby says, standing up to pour himself another coffee from the pot like it’s all that easy.

He drives out to the bridge. He leaves the engine running because it’s as cold as balls and Sam’s college list isn’t worth freezing to death, even if the list in itself is complicated enough to be worthy of straight up admission for most of the schools on the list. Dean’s never given a damn about going to college, but since this hyper college mania descended he has poured through every damn prospectus, every league table, looked up so much mundane freaking trivia at Sam’s request, that it’s kind of weird that they're running close to the wire with all of this now. 

Sam _is_ going to college. Not for a while, maybe, but this year. In eight or nine months time. That’s happening and Dean needs to fucking _deal with it_. 

Cas calls as he’s part way through trying to decipher Sam’s rating system.

“Hey,” Dean says, turning the Led Zeppelin he had running down and shutting his eyes to properly _enjoy_ the warmth of Cas’ voice whenever he speaks to Dean. It’s not there, always, and he’s earnt that obvious affection being squeezed out by irritation plenty, but he freaking always hears it in Cas’ greeting. _Hello, Dean_. God, he loves the way he says that.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, right on queue, only it sounds a lot like there’s running water in the background, and there’s concern mixed in with the affection. The train wreck of a conversation yesterday obviously freaked him out, which is… regrettable. Not exactly what he wanted to happen, but it all just started spilling out. “Are you alright?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, and it’s not even a lie, “Me and Bobby had hot cocoa and a freaking chit chat and I’m… good. What’s with the water, dude?”

“Oh,” Cas says, “I’m pretending to shower so I could call you.” 

“Huh,” Dean says, settling further into his seat, “Does that mean you’re naked?”

“Dean,” Cas chastises, “I did not call you for _that_ , I was… concerned about you.”

“Cas, I’m fine. I just… weak moment. Hit me out of nowhere.”

“You’re the strongest person I know,”

“You _literally_ had to drag my ass out of an airport because I had a goddamn panic attack,” Dean counters, “I’m a wreck, but I’m freakin’ stubborn about it.”

“That’s not a sign of weakness, it's a sign of being phobic,” Cas says, gently, and fuck is Cas so goddamn reasonable and kind about everything, at least until he’s calling Dean out on his bullshit. “You _should_ try and do something about that.”

“Sam bought me a fucking self help book about it for Christmas.”

“Well,” Cas says, a tilt does his voice that means he’s smiling, “Your brother is -”

“ - a pain in the ass?” Dean supplies, “Would’ve been funnier if we weren’t fighting.”

“Ah, you’re fighting with your brother,”

“That’s not why I missed you,” Dean says, because sometimes he doesn’t make that clear, and Cas has a tendency to try and lessen things about himself; about how much Dean cares, about what a strong, badass kind of person _Cas_ is. “Didn’t help any, but I fought with Sam _because_ I was so goddamn antsy about not being able to call you. Missed you because you’re _you_ and ‘cause I… love you and you’re not here and it’s driving me freaking crazy. You’re not some emotional crutch for me, whatever your friends think.”

“I know, Dean.”

“Awesome,” Dean says, tapping his fingers against his steering wheel. “So, are you naked?”

“No,” Cas says, “I am sat on the floor of Anna’s bathroom in my pyjamas.” 

Cas is in his freaking pyjamas sounds pretty damn cute. Mostly, Dean’s seen him sleep naked or underwear and he’s kind of really into the concept of finding out what his regular pjs look like.

“But you will _get_ naked to actually shower, so…”

“Are you still at Bobby’s?” Cas asks, his voice curled into humour, deep crevices of affection in every single syllable. Cas loves him. Cas _loves_ him. He can hear that whenever Cas says ‘hello’ so _why_ is he still so fucking afraid of him?

“Nah, I’m at my bridge in baby.”

“Your bridge?”

“We drove by here on the way back from Bobby’s when you visited. It’s… It’s where I go to think.” 

“Why?” Cas asks. Cas is sharp. He probably knew that Dean didn’t take them on such a detour while Cas was visiting for them to make out, but Dean’s explanation died on his lips before he could get there because he was still so damn conflicted about everything. Dean’s surprised to note that the concept of telling Cas about it now doesn’t cause his stomach to turn over anymore. He could just say it. _I was upset and alone and grieving and drunk and I nearly drove my car straight through the bridge on purpose, but I hit the break_. He basically said it before. He’s pretty sure, right now, he could handle that conversation without is sounding like he's trying to induce guilt.

It’s just not that right _time_ when Cas is sat on the floor of his cousin’s bathroom. 

“How about I explain next time you’re here,” Dean says, “Soon, hopefully.”

“Okay. What are you thinking about?” Cas asks, but it’s not the time to talk about Sam’s college applications yet, either. He’s pretty sure bringing up Yale early admissions before he’s made a decision is a recipe for a fight, and he doesn’t want to talk about any kind of decision he’s pretty sure he’s made on the back of _yesterday_. It'll make it sound like Dean's just making some call on a whim because he had a crappy week and he never wants to not have access to speak to Cas again, but he just --- he just doesn't want to not be able to call Cas, ever. He wants. He wants and he wants and he's freaking wanted for years, and the rest of the bullcrap just feels so much smaller right now.

It's not a goddamn whim. He is sure about that. About Cas.

“Bobby said you apologised to him for that summer when you visited.” Dean says, body still as he just listens, tries to envision Cas’ body language. In Dean's head, Anna's got one of those bath shower combos, and Cas is sat with his back against the bath. Socks on. One sock on, maybe, the good quality, nice kind that Dean has absolutely never freaking owned. 

“Oh,” Cas says, “I wanted him to like me.”

“When?”

“I bought you and Sam sodas.”

That feels like a really long time ago. They've talked about a lot of stuff since then. I love yous. Dean's aversion to I love yous. Easy going, light conversation about freaking libraries, sex, essays.

Cas wanted Bobby to like him.

“Right,” Dean says, running the words over in his head. Cas wanted Bobby to _like him_. For some reason, that makes his stomach swoop a little. That was a long time ago. Freaking ages, if the frustration of distance is anything to go by, and Cas was hoping for something as concrete and solid enough that he _apologised to Bobby for hurting him_.

He just barely remembers Cas getting them sodas.

_You forgave him the second he drunk dialed you and you drove across state lines to see if he was okay. This is just your usual bullcrap of trying to protect yourself from getting hurt._

“Dean, I didn’t mean to cross a line -”

“ - I forgive you,” Dean says, through the roaring in his ears, but it has become achingly transparent that he doesn’t give a crap about those old, scabbed over hurts anymore. Sam's right. He’s just a coward. He just wants something else to blame this on if it doesn't work out. He’s scared and he’s dumb and he misses Cas too much to let that bullcrap rob him of any of his potential happiness.

It just… It doesn't fucking matter. Not when Cas is so goddamn sorry that he wouldn't shut up about it the second Dean got to Yale. Not when Dean actually, for the most parts, somehow trusts him again. Not when Dean's actually pretty sure he understands exactly why Cas took off in the first place, and it's all so, so goddamn irrelevant now.

“What?” Cas asks, voice suddenly pulled taunt.

“I don’t care about that crap, Cas, it happened.”

“About me speaking to Bobby.” Cas says, from so, so far away, voice achingly even. Cas knows what he means. He's there in his pyjamas with the shower running and he knows.

“All of it,” Dean says, “The key. Christmas. You - taking off. It's… You're not wrong, Cas, we were never gonna be friends. You could never be just that, to me, and - it would have been a car crash. It was just… The timing. I lost everything, again, and it damn near killed me -- but, that's not your fault, Cas. You couldn't have known. I… can’t blame you for that and I'm through giving a crap about any of it.” 

“Dean.”

“Its… It's how that fits into right now I'm still trying to work out.”

“Okay,” Cas says, his voice dropping lower with something that's too hard to figure out without more context. He needs a facial expression. He needs to see the curve of his spine and watch the slant of his shoulders.

Cas did say he'd be willing to book flights last minute.

“Your family are gonna think you’re jerking off in the shower,” Dean says, forcing his way half back to light. It's not the time to talk about this. They will. They're gonna talk about freaking everything. “Go, Cas, I'm good.”

“I - you’re probably right,” Cas says.

“Call me when you land.”

“I will call you from the airport,” Cas says, “Dean, _thank you_.”

“Hey,” Dean says, throat only closing up a little, “I, uh, love you.”

“Goodbye, Dean,” Cas says, as rough and patently affectionate as his hello.

Dean balances the list of Sam’s college choices on his knees and pulls out the old map that John Winchester used to use when they were criss-crossing America. 

And - 

And _most_ of the colleges on Sam’s list are within a four hour radius of Yale. Columbia, Brown, Princeton, _Harvard_. NYU. Freaking Yale itself. They’re close. They’re good fucking schools and they’re _on Sam’s list_ , anyway. They’re really goddamn _close_ and -- 

\-- he could wind up a couple of hours away from both of them. Pitch up in the middle. Move to New Haven. Pitch up wherever the hell Sam wants to go, stick to his damn rules about time and distance and not live together, drive out to Cas on the weekends and -- 

It could work.

_It could actually goddamn work_. 

It’s just…. Then, there’s _Stanford_ , but -- 

When they were goddamn teenagers, Dean sat in Cas’ bedroom at the Miltons and went through this same damn process. Pros and con list, like Cas leaving wasn’t going to tear up his insides and freaking _break him_ , and he… he wound up juggling Yale and Stanford, and… didn’t Cas _say_ that it came down to postgraduate schemes? Didn’t he… didn’t Cas say he’d _applied_ to do a masters at Stanford just in case -? 

Dean decides to screw Sam’s goddam chart and tears himself off a fresh piece of paper. With everything that he can remember from the last year of intensive college preparations, he writes down his own list. 

_1.) Columbia, 2.) Yale, 3.) Harvard_. They’re good schools. He can see Sam there. Can see him thriving there and… And Sam won't let him crash his life, and Dean’s sure as hell not prepared to let Sam make his decision be _about Dean_ , but… they’re on Sam’s list.

They’re on _his list_ , anyway.

He mulls over the damn thing for another ten minutes before he adds his final note. _Not Stanford / Berkeley (unless it’s your dream school -- then I’ll talk to Cas)._

Sam’s awake and devouring lunch by the time he gets back to Bobby’s. His very still as he accepts Dean’s revised list of college options. He spends a few seconds too long reading it to be quite believable, then he looks up at him like the list isn’t significant notice of intent. 

“Okay,” Sam says, “California is off the list until further notice.”

And… and maybe that’s _okay_. He can’t stomach asking for anything _beyond_ that, because it’s complicated and it’s Sam’s choice, and he freaking knows that, but he just --- if it’s not Stanford, then -

_It might just fucking work_. 

“Okay,” Dean says, chewing the words over in his head before he commits to saying anything out loud. “I, uh, think I’m gonna ask Cas if he can still visit in January.”

“Okay,” Sam says, smiles, “Good.”

“Awesome,” Dean says, running a thumb over the corner of his phone as he waits for Cas to find another window of opportunity to text him. He’ll talk to him, properly, next week, when they’ve slipped back into their usual routine. 

And then Lisa Braeden changes everything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SoooooooooooOoooooooOO. 
> 
> Yep.


	17. Chapter 17

“Dean,” Cas says, the second Dean picks up the call, and he sounds… Wrong. Upset. Raw. Dean's halfway to meeting Lisa for coffee and for his damn shirt, and he hasn't heard Cas sound like _that_ , ever, so Lisa can wait.

“Cas, what's wrong?” Dean asks, tucking his phone under his ear as he pushes open the door of the Kansas City coffee shop. A quick scan says Lisa's not here yet, anyway, and fuck coffee. He'll just get a table and his shirt and _then_ he’ll talk to Cas about everything. All of it. Every damn thing they need to discuss. 

“Dean, I'm at the airport.” 

Dean stops short in the middle of the damn coffee shop, because… The _airport_? He’s pretty damn sure that Cas shouldn’t be anywhere near a freaking airport right now. He only just touched down back from California. 

“The--- what? Cas. What's going on?” 

“I'm - I'll explain when I'm there, but I'm boarding a plane to Kansas City and I -” 

That's Lisa. That's _Lisa_ , and - 

“ - Cas,” Dean cuts across because, oh _fuck, fuck, fuck_ , his stomach is plummeting and, fuck, because... “Cas, I need to go. I - I've got a situation, here, I'll - I'll call you back --” 

Lisa. 

Lisa is _pregnant_. 

*

Castiel is having a good day. 

One of those cosy, intimate winter days where everyone _not_ still at home with their families for Christmas has piled into their apartment with beer and take out menus and have tried to fit on his sofa. Meg has mellowed from her usual festive bitterness (she hasn’t attended Christmas with her parents for the last three years, and this year refused to join _his family_ too), Kelly has insisted on leftover eggnog that none of them like and Dean is over a thousand miles away sending him inane but lovely messages about some action movie franchise that he insists with the kind of bizarre, committed passion that Dean has about the strangest things, is a Christmas movie. 

“Meg, what are you doing?” Castiel asks, as she picks up his hand and rearranges it on the coffee table, apparently in order to paint his nails the same blood red as her own. Castiel is too comfortable and content to bother to stop her, and has no real commitment to _not_ having red nails. 

“ - we match, Clarence,” Meg smirks, all bitter edges and snark as Meg always is around other people, with the odd shock of vulnerability bleeding through when she’s unable to stop it. “And now you look like a hooker.” 

“My turn, Meg,” Kelly puts in, tapping her own left hand against the coffee table. “Hooker nails all round, please.” 

“Wait your turn, Kline. Right hand, Clarence,” 

“Ah ha, but that would mean Castiel putting down his phone and _that_ would involve not texting Dean Winchester,” Kelly says, stepping round them in order to make space between himself and Meg on the floor. “Budge, Castiel.” 

Castiel obliges without the hint of embarrassment he expects Kelly was likely trying to induce, because he is exceedingly content in this current moment, and there is no room in him to feel something as unsatisfactory as _embarrassment_. He has been incessantly exchanging messages with Dean since he arrived back in New Haven, and he is very, very happy about that fact. 

Dean Winchester _missed him_. Not in a muted, easily squashed way, but in a raw, maddening way that had him tumbling out the kind of sentiments about his feelings that Castiel has always wanted from him. Now they’ve spoken enough that he is quite sure that Dean _is_ fine and the burning worry has been put out, he has found the concept of Dean missing him very… pleasing. 

It _is_ rude to sit and text Dean when his friends are in his front room, but Dean Winchester is a difficult habit to kick, and his commitment to good manners is not enough to eclipse the gnawing desire to send another message. 

_We are marathon watching ‘friends’ with beer_ Castiel types out, inadvertently smudging the red nail paint across his cuticles. _I am as of yet undecided about whether they were ‘on a break’._. 

Dean is one thousand three hundred miles away watching TV with his brother, but Castiel receives a _they WERE on a break_ almost instantly, quickly followed by a _still a douchebag move, though. Asshat deserved to be dumped_ that makes him smile for no real reason. 

He missed Dean too. 

“- Castiel?” Hannah asks, nudging him with her foot. Her expression is open and curious and clearly expecting an answer to a question that Castiel didn’t listen to. 

“Oh,” Castiel says, “I wasn’t listening.” 

“She said _how is_ our favourite redneck ken doll?” 

“Meg,” Castiel chastises, setting down his phone in his pocket because he really should re-engage with his friends. His family are wonderful, well meaning and loving beyond what Castiel understood family could be for a great length of time, but Christmas was tainted by trying to _not_ appear as though he was hiding anything, the insatiable tug to his phone, and the Dean related unease that creeps in when they’re not communicating. “Be nice.” 

“Awh, Clarence, I’m sure Winchester can’t get butt hurt from all the way in Kansas. Well, _maaaaybe_ he can.” 

“Yes, Meg, I understand that you don’t like Dean -” 

“ - unicorn, you like him enough for the both of us.” 

Castiel’s phone pings with a completely contextless _you’d look good in flannel. Actually, you’d look good in fucking anything_ that pulls his mouth into a wide smile. 

“I’ll give him something,” Kelly says, “He _does_ make you happy.” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, locking his phone again and setting it down. Dean does make him happy. Dean also makes him frustrated, confused and impatient, but he unlocks this pleased, contented feeling from his gut that nothing else has ever prompted. Dean is annoying and endearing and one of the most enigmatic individual’s Castiel has ever met. 

“And ten points to _men are from mars_ ,” Meg puts in, as she begins to go over her own nails with another layer of shocking red. “Talk about an elastic band.” 

“You know I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” 

“Ping,” Meg says, blowing on her nails, “Four months of hanging off of his every word, then you ask for a couple of day’s space and then - _ping_.” 

Castiel’s phone chimes with another text message from Dean. 

“It was nearly two weeks,” 

“ _Ping_ ,” Meg says, standing up, “Helluva strategy, Clarence.” 

“It wasn’t a strategic move,” Castiel says, running a thumb over the edge of his phone. There was no intention of trying to push Dean towards any kind of decision, although he desperately, absolutely wants Dean to make a decision, and soon, and only if it is a particular decision, but he has to admit that the results were beneficial. 

Dean has been more open. Dean has forgiven him. 

“Who wants vodka?” 

“I will take another beer,” Kelly says, “ _Are_ you flying out there next week, Castiel, now that he pings?” 

“No,” Castiel says, although it is very tempting to say yes. After their conversation on New Year's Eve he nearly changed his return flight to New Haven to Kansas, but… It feels as though they are on the cusp of something. He is hopeful that Dean will ask him to come. He has faith in Dean, and in Dean's timing, and he will wait. “Unless he asks me too.” 

“Right,” Meg scoffs. 

“Do you think he will?” Hannah asks, as his phone chimes again with another message. 

“I,” Castiel begins, looking at his phone for something to do, because it feels too hopeful and raw to say _yes_ out loud and… they have taken some persuading of Dean’s merits, which is understandable given the point that Hannah, Kelly and Meg entered his life. He has sat through several ‘coffee interventions’ and multiple _’are you sure, Castiel’s?_ and stating his confidence too soon will surely only harm their opinion of him. 

Dean’s latest message flips his stomach over with that almost pleasant-nervousness. 

_Call me when you’re alone and free to talk. Wanna talk to you about something._

_A good something?_ Castiel types out, hands not quite steady. Dean’s reply of _yep_ is almost instantaneous. “Yes,” Castiel says, out loud, staring at his phone without blinking, “I think he will.” 

“Well Clarence,” Meg says from the kitchen, setting the bottle of vodka that she’s been working on since just after noon with a decisive click. Meg is less equipped at handling the festive season than Castiel, and he has long since stopped trying to talk her into moderate consumption. Meg will do what Meg wants to do when she wants to do it, and she will come to Castiel for assistance when she is ready to do so. “Seems like you have it all worked out.” 

“Meg,” 

“I think... I'm going out.” 

“ _Meg_.” 

“Leave it, Castiel,” Kelly says, hand on his arm before he can stand up and follow her into her bedroom and demand for her to explain _what_ exactly he has done to elicit such a response, and why she must always rely on self-destruction? “If she needs to blow off some steam -” 

“ - I _said_ she was welcome to join us for Christmas,” Castiel says, something like irritation or despair seeping into his voice. Meg is frustrating and bitter and incredibly precious to him and he wishes, regularly, that he was able to _get through to her_. He is sure that he used to be better at it. “I don’t -” 

“- Castiel,” Hannah says, “You can’t fix everything.” 

Castiel exhales and tries to force himself into concentrating on the television again, but some of the easy joy of the evening has evaporated into worry. 

It is still, more or less, a good evening. 

* 

“Clarence -” 

There’s a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake, and then his Yale bedroom is flooded with light and - 

“ _Clarence_. Castiel,” Meg says, looming over him with her familiar scent of sharp perfume and cigarettes. 

“Meg, what?” Castiel growls, bleary and too warm and comfortable to suddenly be thrust into _awakeness_. It’s early. Early enough that there’s no natural light leaking past his blind and early enough that Meg shows no indications of having gone to bed yet. 

“Gabriel called, Clarence, Inias had a heart attack -” 

And then he is very, very, painfully awake. 

“What?” 

“Serious but stable condition,” Meg says, flicking on another of his lights on and dragging his suitcase out from under his bed. “She wants you to fly home, she’s sent you the money but the flight -” 

“Okay,” Castiel says, rubbing a hand over his face and pushing the covers off his legs. 

_Inias_. His quiet, dependable uncle who eases over Hester’s edges and … heart attack. His _heart_. “I - serious but stable condition. Meg, what does that mean?” 

“Castiel. Don’t grill the messenger, I don’t _know_ okay? But I told Gabriel I’d get you on the next flight, so I -” 

“You’re high.” 

“No shit, Unicorn,” Meg says, “Pack, Castiel, I’ll make you coffee.” 

Dean still has Castiel’s travel mug. The thought occurs to him when Meg presses her own mug into his hands on the way to the car, phone in her right hand as she frantically searches for the quickest possible way to get him to Lawrence Memorial Hospital. 

“LaGuardia Airport,” Meg says, slipping into the passenger seat like she’d always intended to accompany him. “I’ll drive your car back here.” 

“ - Meg,” 

“I’ll wait till I’m sober, okay? Now get that glorious ass in gear, Clarence, I’m not leaving you until you’re on the flight - “ 

“ - Meg, I am _fine_." 

“Right now, maybe,” Meg says, “I _know_ you Clarence. Half the time it takes you a week to work out you’re having an emotion, let alone process it. No chance I’m letting you go it alone.” 

“Please can you… call Hester and tell her I’m on my way?” Castiel asks, shoulders squaring against the wheel as he tries not to remember every awful, terrifying thing that he knows about heart attacks. 

* 

It doesn’t occur to him to call Dean until he’s at the departure gate, and then it is imperative. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, the second Dean picks up the call, and - and Castiel feels like some raw, painful fear is building and ready to seep out from his skin, but, but - Dean is in Lawrence, Kansas, and Dean, Dean can pull Castiel to his chest, trapping him between those familiar arms, until his warmth bleeds through into Castiel's soul and all of this feels _manageable_ again. 

Inias is in hospital, heart attack, and Castiel wants a hug. 

He can get one. Damn whatever is happening with their relationship, he needs Dean. Needs a hug. Needs him _there_ and - 

“Cas, what's wrong?” Dean asks, because of course he knows. Castiel's voice is all wrong and Dean is too in tune with him, these days, not to know from the first word that there is something desperately, impossibly wrong. 

“Dean, I'm at the airport.” 

“The--- what? Cas. What's going on?” 

“I'm - I'll explain when I'm there, but I'm boarding a plane to Kansas City and I -” 

“ - Cas,” Dean cuts across, something in his voice that sends a chill down his spine. Abrupt and sudden. “Cas, I need to go. I - I've got a situation, here, I'll - I'll call you back. 

And then, the dial tone. 

* 

Inias is in surgery by the time Castiel gets to the hospital. 

Hester tells him in a falsely calm, even voice that there was a second heart attack after they reached the hospital, and now he is having a coronary artery bypass, and that they do not know what is going to happen. 

And then they wait. 

* 

“Who are you expecting to call you, Castiel?” Hester asks. Castiel sets his phone down, because he has been anxiously checking his phone ever since his damnable call at the airport. He hadn't been aware he'd been so obvious, but Hester is very good at reading people, and they have all been rattling around the hospital and _waiting_ and waiting.

“Hester,” Castiel says, warily. She is emotional in a way that Castiel has never seen her before. She is _quiet_ , muted, and has been intermittently reaching out for physical reassurance with a hand on his shoulders, or to try and flatten his hair. The last thing that Castiel wants to do currently is cause his Aunt any more distress. 

“I know when you’re keeping things from me, Castiel,” She says, weary, with only a hint of warning in her voice. 

Gabriel returns with three hospital coffees and six packets of sugar, a not quite grim expression on his face. 

“What are we gossiping about?” 

“Castiel,” Hester says, voice firm. 

There does not seem to be a way around this situation. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, with his phone heavy in his hands, “I am waiting for Dean to call me.” 

“Dean Winchester, Dean?” Hester asks, eyebrow raised. 

“Wowza,” Gabriel says, tipping another sachet of sugar into Hester’s coffee before pressing into her hands. 

“Castiel -” 

“ - I,” Castiel begins, “Hester, I didn’t _intend_ to keep things from you, but -” 

“Are you back together?” She asks, cutting across his explanation. 

“No,” Castiel says, “We are… seeing if we can work things out.” 

“How long?” 

“Hester,” Castiel says, eyeing her wearily, “We can discuss this later.” 

“Castiel,” Hester says again, in her _no nonsense_ voice that is usually directed at Gabriel rather than Castiel, that upsurges a sudden glut of guilt. 

“Four months.” 

Hester sucks in a deep breath. 

“I’m going to see if Anna has been able to book a flight yet,” Hester says, abrupt and almost cold. 

“Hester,” Castiel says, his chest twisting, “I -” 

“Leave it, Cassie,” Gabriel says, some deep wisdom in his voice that Castiel wasn't expecting. He forgets, sometimes, how well Gabriel is able to read the mood of those around him. “She needs a minute.” 

“Are _you_ upset with me?” Castiel asks, more emotions that he knows how to process so close to the surface that he’s unsure exactly _how_ he feels. This anxious, clogging fear, shock, guilt. There is a surgeon cutting into Inias’ chest and Dean has not called him back. Hester is _hurt_ and scared for her husband’s life, and Castiel is breaking things and upsetting people, and he wants to see Dean more than he has ever wanted to see anyone in his adult life. 

“Let’s get some food, Cuz,” Gabriel says, his voice uncharacteristically gentle as he guides him towards the cafeteria with his elbow. Castiel isn’t hungry. He hasn’t eaten since the packet of crisps he consumed on the plane in a confused daze, but he isn’t hungry. 

He is many things, but he is _not hungry_. 

“ - Gabriel,” 

“Look, Cassie, I _was_ pissed off when I heard you call him when we were in LA, _but_ right now I’m more upset about the whole heart attack situation, so, come on. Let's get some donuts.” 

A sharp lump of something painful and bitter is at the back of his throat. 

“I didn’t mean to upset anyone,” Castiel says, once he’s sat in the hospital cafeteria, picking at the donut that Gabriel has thrust upon him that he doesn’t want. They have been silent for close to ten minutes, and everything is awful, and balancing on a knife edge as they _wait for something to happen_. 

Inias. Hester. He does not know what he is supposed to do with these feelings and - 

_And why hasn't Dean called him back?_

“Cassie,” Gabriel says, “We know, that’s the problem. You’re so damn determined not to upset anyone that you don’t talk about stuff that’s bothering you and suffer on your own. To _Mom_ , that means she’s failed you.” 

“I didn’t -” 

“ - I know,” Gabriel says, eating another donut, “Is there anything else?” 

“Anything _else_?” 

“Cassie, at this point, it’s best to tell her everything,” Gabriel says, standing up to wave Hester over. Gabriel must have text her while Castiel sat with his gaze swimming, maritaning in the realisation that Gabriel did hear that phone conversation. He wordlessly passes her over her own packet of donuts, which she eats at an alarming Gabriel-esque speed without speaking. Her eyes are rimmed red and Castiel has always detested seeing her upset, but there is nothing in the whole world that he can _do_. 

They have to wait. 

Just, wait. 

“Hester,” Castiel says, after they have drank another cup of watery, hospital coffee that sits uncomfortably in his windpipe. “I… drunk dialled Dean after my father tried to get in contact and he drove to New Haven.” 

“From _Kansas_?” 

“No,” Castiel says, “He was on a road trip. He drove from Indiana.” 

“Damn, you must be good in bed.” 

“Gabriel,” Hester says, but it’s a half hearted telling off. The corners of her lips soften slightly.

“That’s _some_ drive for a booty call -” 

“ - Gabriel,” Castiel says, “I was very drunk. He was concerned.” 

“There’s _concern_ and then - “ 

“ - it was six AM,” Castiel says, shame burning in his cheeks, because he knows he told Hester that he was fine. That he lied to her. “I… I was upset.” 

“And you have been in contact since then?” 

“He stayed for nearly a week,” Castiel says, looking at his hands, “I visited him in Lawrence in November and I had intended to visit him this week, but I cancelled because… it felt unwise while we are still… working things out.” 

Hester nods and covers his hands with her own. 

“Castiel -” 

“ - Hester, I’m _sorry_ but I -- I was confused about what was happening, and -” Castiel says, his voice cracking as he speaks. Today is not a good day, which he's sure is the reason why the conversation with Dean left him so unsettled. Dean will call him back. He has reliably called him back for months. He has some kind of situation, which usually means that he's arguing with his brother. He will call him and they'll meet up and he'll get the hug he’s wanted from Dean Winchester for months, and --- the surgery will go well and Inias will _wake up soon_ and Hester will forgive him for keeping things from her and not worry and - 

“ - It doesn’t matter,” Hester says, simply, running a thumb over his knuckles, “Is Dean well?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “But, his father died.” 

“Man, that sucks,” Gabriel asks, “When?” 

“Right after that summer,” Castiel says, his shoulders slumped, “Sam lives with him now. He’s working at the garage, still. He has nearly finished his degree at community college just to appease his brother and he volunteers at Sonny’s in his spare time. He… he’s doing well.” 

“I’m going to ask for an update,” Hester says, getting to her feet. 

* 

The doctor says that surgery went well, but things are still touch and go until Inias regains consciousness. 

* 

“Cassie, I’m getting some fresh air,” Gabriel says, after he has spent several long moments watching his father’s pale, ashy face, and watching Hester take his hand and sit. These are the kind of situations that Gabriel finds difficult, where it’s too soon for humour and nothing to be done for anyone else but wait. 

“Gabriel,” Hester says, evenly, “If you really believe I don’t know that you _smoke_ -” 

“ - ignorance is bliss, mother,” Gabriel says, pausing to rest a hand on her arm and almost smiles. “Cassie, come with me a minute.” 

Gabriel doesn’t speak until he’s smoked his way through one and a half cigarettes. 

“Cassie,” Gabriel says, uncharacteristically serious, “Are you sure about this?” 

“About Dean?” 

“Yeah, Castiel, about Dean. I remember the last two goes round this merry-go-round and that shit wasn’t pretty -” 

“ - Gabriel, it’s _different_ this time.” 

“Really,” Gabriel says, taking another drag of his cigarette, “So, you’re not waiting for him to decide whether he’s in or out?” 

The fact that Gabriel can see through him so easily does not sit well with him. He would like to explain that...that Castiel has asked for what he wants, this time, that he has explained how he feels. They have talked and talked and talked and it's different now. 

Even if he is waiting for Dean to decide what he can give him. 

“I - Gabriel. He said that he _loves_ me.” 

Gabriel lets out a lungful of air. 

“I saw him this morning, Cassie, having coffee with some girl.” 

Castiel frowns at him, something sour and disconcerting beginning to brew in his stomach that he does not want, because Castiel _trusts Dean_. It’s only been a few hours. Dean doesn’t know that they’re currently waiting for Inias to wake up and he doesn’t know how desperately Castiel _wants to see him_ right now, and he will call, and he will come to the hospital and press his lips against Castiel’s forehead and look after him just as he did in New Haven when he was hungover and torn up about his father. 

He has _faith in Dean_. 

“Look,” Gabriel says, “I don’t know _what_ I saw, okay, but… I don’t _like_ that you’re waiting on a damn phone call when Dad’s in hospital.” 

“I don’t know why he hasn’t called,” Castiel says, stomach clenched, painful, “But he _will call_ , Gabriel, I -- he’s going to call me.” 

“Okay,” Gabriel says, holding up his hands, “Okay, Castiel. I hope you’re right.” 

* 

Inias wakes up. 

Dean does not call. 

By the fourth day, Castiel no longer believes that he will. 

* 

“Castiel,” Anna says, as they collectively scrub the Milton’s kitchen until it is cleaner than they have ever been. Hester has not left the hospital in two days. Inias will not be discharged for a few more and Gabriel is currently doing the grocery shopping. That old familiar feeling that he is encroaching on their family crisis has been invading him for the first time in years, because he loves Inias deeply and immensely, but he is Anna and Gabriel’s _father_ and he has Hester’s _husband_ , and Castiel has only been part of this family unit for a few years. He is absorbed in his own selfish, shitty thoughts and he is lonely, and upset, and he does not really want to talk to Anna. “You could go over there. I’m sure that Gabriel will let you use his car.” 

He wants to be useful for Hester and Inias and he absolutely doesn’t want to think about _Dean_ , because every time he does he everything in his head becomes much, much more complicated. 

“No,” Castiel says, through the sharp knife in his throat that has been there ever since he replayed that conversation in his head and realised that Dean chased him off the phone the second he mentioned that he was boarding a plane to Kansas. “If Dean wished to see me, then -” 

“ - Perhaps this… this _situation_ he mentioned…” 

“We said,” Castiel says, his voice tight, “That we would discuss the nature of our relationship when we were face to face.” 

Anna rests a hand on his shoulder and does not bring it up again. 

* 

Two days after Inias has been discharged from hospital and three days before classes begin, he flies back, Kelly picks him up from the airport and drives back to his Yale Apartment in silence. He didn’t want to stay in _Lawrence_ where the memory of Dean haunts every single corner, but he didn’t want to leave Hester and Inias either. They decided for him. Insisted with a tight hug and a familiar _we love you, Castiel_ that was pressed into his forehead. Anna already had to leave and Gabriel’s classes were about to start, too, but -- 

Castiel is not sure that he wants to be in New Haven much more than he wants to be in Lawrence. 

“You look like shit, Clarence,” Meg says, pausing in the kitchen doorway. “Is your uncle okay?” 

“Yes,” Cas says, because he has been very negligent in updating her. They have exchanged three messages since he arrived in Lawrence, in order to communicated that his Uncle was alive and recovering and nothing else. “He is… shook up and frustrated at being unable to look after himself, but he will be fine.” 

“Did you see Dean?” 

“No,” Cas says, the word heavy, his voice shattering at the end. 

Meg doesn't deliver the I told you so he was expecting, or any kind of barbed comment, she just offers him one of her sad, bitter smiles and insists on ordering take out. 

* 

“Hello, Gabriel,” Castiel says, balancing the phone between his ear and his shoulders as he shifts on the sofa. Half of Meg’s legs are in his lap because she has exceptionally low standards when it comes to other people’s personal space, and he is comfortable and strung out and endlessly sad.“We're being melancholy.” 

“That involve alcohol?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “We're watching a Wonderful Life and Hannah is bringing over ice cream.” 

“He hasn't called you?” Gabriel asks, his voice strumming with well concealed anger, in a very Gabriel like fashion. At this moment, Castiel is not angry, he is tired. He is bone-deep exhausted of being in love with Dean Winchester and the way that usually ends. He is sad and he is tired and he is not, at this exact second, angry. 

“No, Gabriel. Dean Winchester has not called me.” 

“The bastard,” Gabriel spits out, “Cassie, I didn't want to be right about this.” 

“I know that,” Castiel says, resigned. 

“Where does he live these days? I'm going to go over there and kick his ass.” 

“No ass kicking is required,” Castiel says, “I will _get over it_. I have done it before.” 

“Sure,” Gabriel says, “That's how all of this happened in the first place. Because you're an expert of getting over shit. Okay, Cassie. I'll let you get back to your pity party, but you let me know about that ass kicking.” 

“Gabriel,” Castiel says, the heaviness he has been carrying with him since he realised that Dean was not going to call, at all, spilling over into his voice. “I hate to undermine your ways of showing affection, but I'm unconvinced you could actually kick his ass.” 

“I'll key his precious car.” 

Castiel almost cracks a smile at that, because it is funny that that's the worst thing he can imagine anyone doing to Dean Winchester, and because the concept of Gabriel going through with it in his name is hysterical. 

“Forget Dean,” Castiel says, throat hoarse, “How is Inias?” 

* 

Gabriel must do something after their call (the details that Gabriel gives him are much more satisfying than the updates he has had from Hester, because they are more comprehensive and include extensive information about his Aunt’s welfare too), because Dean tries to call him three hours later. 

Castiel estimates that the call is approximately five days too late to be forgivable. 

It's the middle of the night and he should be asleep rather than watching a terrible film that Hannah picked out in the name of babying Castiel through the latest installment of Dean Winchester heartbreak, but _this time_ Castiel has friends separated enough from Dean that on the outset Castiel was sure that it would be better, this time. 

Easier. 

He has told himself that they were _not dating_ and so it will be fine. That it will hurt, but that Castiel has the ability and the strategies and the capacity for it not to break him so thoroughly, this time. 

Except, seeing Dean’s name on his phone after over a week of pointed absence sends a shock of _something_ down his spine that he cannot deal with yet. He does not allow Meg to answer with a string of expletives and swear words and instead pockets his phone with a sudden stinging pain in his gut. 

It is, he decides after he has ruminated on it all fucking night, pure, unadulterated rage. 

* 

Dean calls twice more when he's in one of his classes. Castiel hits _ignore_ both times, because Dean can fucking wait until Castiel is ready to speak to him. 

* 

The fourth call comes when Castiel has just finished his damnable physics class and is headed home to study and this time the hurt and the anger is such that he is _ready_ to fight this out. 

He is fed up of questioning himself and of questioning Dean’s actions, which very rarely make any damn sense. He is _tired_ of juxtaposing the Dean who spilled out an _I love you_ over the phone after a week of no contact, and the Dean who ‘ghosted’ him the next fucking week with no context. He is _angry_ and he is _upset_ and he --- 

\--- he wants this conversation _done_. 

He answers the call with a _”what?_ that encapsulates a great deal of the emotion that has been suffocating him for the past few days. The frustration and the confusion and the _anger_. 

“Hello to you too, Cas,” Dean says, from over a thousand miles away. The distance has never felt so obvious before, because if Dean were _here_ he would know that _that_ is far from the correct way to start this damn conversation. 

“Dean.” Castiel says, hard. It's not a question. Castiel is not going to ask anything. He has enough answers to make a decision. 

“Guessing there's no chance you're still in Kansas?” 

“No.” 

“Cas, please let me explain.” 

“Explain _why_ , after stating you want to work out our relationship status in person, when I tell you I'm going to be in the same state as you, you would _fob me off_ then not call me for over a week with no word or indication of when you would deign to contact me?” Castiel asks, loud and pointed enough that several people in the corridor look at him, but he does not care. He _does not care_ , because Dean -- fucking Dean Winchester -- was supposed to be there, and he wasn’t, and now he wants to _explain_ and it is way too damn late for that. 

They are past the point of explanations. 

“Yeah, okay, it sounds pretty damn bad, I get that -” 

“ - Gabriel saw you on a date, Dean.” 

“What the -? I haven’t been on any fucking dates, that was -” 

“What happened?” Castiel demands, stopping short in one of Yale corridors with his blood pounding. Last time he was this angry at Dean, he yelled that he was _bad for him_ and walked out, and he regretted it, but _this time_ \-- 

He is better at handling things than he was then and he is sure, this time, that his reaction is entirely appropriate. 

“There - there was... a situation and I'm still slap fucking bang in the middle of it -” 

“ - what situation?” Castiel spits out. 

Dean swallows. Pauses. Takes long enough to come up with an answer that Castiel’s irritation peaks further. 

“Cas, this isn't a phone call kind of conversation, I -” 

“Really? Really Dean? Do you know the reason I was in Kansas last week? Inias had a heart attack. _Two_ heart attacks and by the time I was home, he was already in surgery for a bypass and….I needed a _hug_ and instead I was treated to a Dean Winchester classic strategy. Dammit, Dean, I didn’t need a commitment from you. I just needed a fucking hug.” 

“He okay?” Dean says, voice thick. “Is he?” 

“Yes, Dean, he's recovering well from surgery. Thank you for asking.” 

“Cas, I'm really fucking sorry, if I'd known -” 

“ - You didn’t stay on the phone for long enough for me to explain,” Castiel snaps, “I tried to tell you, Dean, and you _hung up_. I understand you have a ‘situation’ which must be taking up a lot of your time -- ” 

“Cas, please, fucking please, I just need --”

“What exactly do you fucking need from me, Dean?” 

“Cas,” Dean says, in that exact tortured way that that makes Castiel feel like his internal organs have been turned inside out, and it isn’t fair, it isn’t fair that he has to _feel like this_ when Dean clearly does not. He _can’t_ , because otherwise they wouldn’t be back here, again, with the walls beginning to close in on him - 

“This conversation is pointless,” Castiel says, chest aching and breaking and hardening, because… Because he has been here before, with Dean. He knows how this hurts. He knows how this goes. “You have no intention of giving me what I need. You _never_ had any intention of giving me what I need.” 

“Cas, dammit, that’s not….Sam applied to Yale early admissions-” 

“ - Which you would have known for _months_ ,” Castiel says, his head spinning. Spiraling. Everything, free falling. 

“ - He didn't tell me, Cas, but -” 

“Your brother has made a grander declaration of commitment to our relationship than you,” Castiel says, blinking and, fuck, but he is going to cry. It's coming now; building at the back of his throat. He is going to cry and it is going to be humiliating and pointless and _needless_ because everyone told him this would happen. Meg, Kelly, Gabriel. They said that Dean would break his heart, and Castiel thought that it would be worth it, and he thought… 

He thought that this time would be different. 

Castiel is an idiot. 

“Damnit, Castiel, please listen to me.” 

“No,” Castiel says, “No.” 

“Please, hear me out here, Cas. I need you to listen to me.” 

“I needed you, Dean, and you didn't call for a week - “ 

“Fucking - I, damnit, I forgot you freaking called, Cas. That whole conversation just dropped out of my head because of this, because of this situation, and I - it didn’t even register that you were in Lawrence, I didn’t even _hear_ that - and then Gabriel text me to tell me I was an asshole and I - “ 

The audacity of the excuse feels like a slap to the face. 

“You _forgot_ that I called you?” 

“Castiel,” Dean says, “I _swear_ I have an explanation for this -” 

“An explanation that you’re not prepared to give?” 

“It’s not like that.” 

“I have an explanation for you,” Castiel says, “You never intended for us to resume our relationship, but you are lonely, so you continued to put off the difficult conversation with _no intention_ of us ever talking about it, and then you panicked when I said I was in Lawrence.” 

“I wanted to see you. I’ve wanted to see you for _months_ , Cas. I - the whole fucking reason I said I wanted to talk, before, is because I wanted to tell you that I was in.” 

“You _were_ in?” Castiel asks, something complicated and upsetting happening in his chest, and then it all goes very quiet. _I was in_. “You've changed your mind. You’ve changed your _fucking_ mind before you even told me. You, this is _prom_ all over again, except this is _my life_ , Dean. Why? _Why_ are you doing this to me again?” 

“Goddamnit, Cas, I need you to calm down and _listen_ to me.” 

“Do you think that this relationship will work out?” 

“I,” 

“Dean.” Castiel says, a warning, that’s as firm and deliberate as anything he’s ever given. 

“No,” Dean says, and it feels very much like a puncture to his chest. “But I - Cas, I did, okay. I did. I was there, dammit, that's what I wanted to talk to you about and I - I need to see you, Cas, to explain -” 

“You want to explain _why_ you don’t want to be in a relationship with me,” Castiel says, and now the fight has gone out of his voice, and it’s just stripped back, plain brokenness. “That’s the conversation you want us to have.” 

“It's not about what I _want_.” 

“It has always been about what you _want_ , Dean, and clearly you do not want this.” 

“Cas,” 

“No,” Castiel says, “I am _angry_ , Dean, and I am upset and I don’t want to listen to you.” 

“If I fly out there and talk to you will you hear me out?” Dean asks, and his voice is desperate and full of something, too, but Castiel can’t pay attention to that. He can't make assumptions about how Dean feels from his _voice_ when everything he’s ever done has screamed otherwise. 

Except… 

_If I fly out there and talk will you hear me out?_

“You’d do that?” 

“Yeah, Dean says, breathes, and then, and _then_ , “I - I might need to deal with this thing first, but then I-” 

_Castiel is a fucking idiot_. 

“You want me to wait until you have resolved your situation before you tell me why we can't be together?” Castiel asks, phone still clenched tight in his hand, something like disbelief leaving an aftertaste after the words have left his mouth. 

Dean, at least, seems to realise how damn ridiculous his request is. 

“I just… I just need a couple of months,” He says, his voice small now, barely above a breath. He is maddening and confusing and Castiel is very much in love with him, but Dean has already _told him_ that love means very little. 

“No,” Castiel says, voice raw but solid, “That's not good enough.” 

“I know that, Cas, I know and I wouldn't ask if, if I didn’t -” 

“No,” Cas says, “I’m done, Dean. I’m sorry, but that's the way it is.” 

Dean is silent for a beat. 

“What happened to I’m in until you make it explicitly clear that you don't want me to be?” Dean asks and he sounds _broken too_. Like the words are costing him on the way out. Like they’re bitter and harsh and are splintering his ribcage, too, but Castiel _cannot listen to that_ because -- 

Dean has never, ever given him what he needed. He has never committed without being pushed. He has never offered himself up without conditions. He has never promised to be anything but a disappointment and… and it is _not enough_. 

“You did make it explicitly clear, Dean, that however you think you feel, you don’t want this.” 

“Please, Cas, I --- I’m on my knees, here. Give me… just give me some more time.” 

Castiel slams his jaw shut and drags out the words from a place that feels much stronger than he does currently. “Don’t you think,” Castiel says, even though his chest hurts and his _soul aches_ and he’s angry and grieving and _done_ , “That I’ve given you enough?” 

Dean hangs up. 

* 

He is not sure how he gets home, but he does, and he is - he is crying now, real, deep tears that dredge up from underneath his gut and hurt on the way out of his throat -- and Castiel makes bad decisions, and he is bad at emotions and he is bad _at this_ and he… He should have known better, and now his chest is splintering and it hurts more abruptly than it did last time Dean Winchester broke his fucking heart, because it is sudden and shocking and it _sharp_. 

He has an email from his father asking if he is okay. It's Monday, which means he forgot to send their stupid, impersonal email that they usually exchange on Thursdays because he is not ready to lose the possibility of his father and not ready to deal with the situation either, and now his father has broken their tradition. 

His father wrote _Dear Castiel, are you okay?_ and he isn't, damnit, and he's done with restricting the part of himself that his father gets to see. Castiel is emotional and he cares too much from , and --- 

\--- And if his father doesn’t like those things about him then there is no point them continuing to have a relationship at all, because this is always and absolutely how Castiel has been, and he will not be manipulated again. Not by anyone. Not ever. 

He replies with a curt _no. My uncle has been in hospital and my boyfriend dumped me over the phone_ and sends it before he can censor himself and and --- 

“Clarence, let me the fuck in -” 

Castiel balls his hands into fists under his armpits and cries and the indignity of it all hurts and hurts and hurts. 

“Castiel. I will knock this fucking door down,” Meg says, “You know I will.” 

Castiel opens the door and Meg throws her arms around his neck, tight, and hugs him until he no longer feels like he is going to fall apart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, look 
> 
> I am sorry about this. Genuinely and absolutely and YEP please don't hate me. There is going to be another part* and .... I really feel like this is all very necessary and stuff and, uhm.
> 
> Don't hunt me down with a pitch fork?
> 
> Next but will pick up almost exactly where we left off. Harrah.
> 
> * Two parts


End file.
